5. Nyree
Nyree
I step out of the shower, my skin still humming with the warmth that clings to it, water droplets trailing down my body as I wrap myself in the soft embrace of a towel. The cold of the storm outside feels more distant now, as if I’ve barricaded it with the heat that lingers on my skin. I reach for my hair, squeezing out the last traces of moisture, the strands clinging to the towel. I move slowly, trying to settle the restlessness in my chest.
The vacation house is quiet, save for the occasional gust of wind howling through the cracks of the windowpanes and making them rattle. It should be comforting, the peacefulness of knowing the storm is outside. But my mind is elsewhere, pulled in another direction, drawn back to thoughts of Coco.
She is probably sitting at the airport, waiting for updates on her flight. The image of her, hunched over in those uncomfortable chairs, scrolling through her phone as she waits for the announcement, flickers in my mind. I can’t help but feel a sudden twinge of worry.
But even beyond that concern, something gnaws at me. Something that doesn’t quite add up. Coco missing her flight. How? If she’d been on time, she wouldn’t have had to reschedule. The storm hadn’t hit that badly when her original flight was supposed to leave. In fact, the plane she was meant to be on took off not but thirty minutes after mine. She explained she had to get her ticket late because of something at work when I insisted we go on the same flight. It was a little relieving to know it was just thirty minutes apart, but that she’s not here now makes me feel anxious. She knows what something like this does to me.
Coco wouldn’t just miss it.
I feel a subtle unease as I grab my phone and send her a quick message, trying to shake the doubt clinging to my thoughts.
Hey girl… Got to the vacation house safe and sound.
Her reply comes almost instantly, as though she’s been waiting, poised with her fingers hovering over her phone.
Great! Getting comfy?
There’s a casualness to her words that feels deliberate, and I don’t know why it sets me on edge. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. But still…
Yeah… But now I’m wondering what happened? The flight you were supposed to be on, left before the snowing got really bad. How did you miss it?
I hit send and wait. The seconds stretch out into minutes, each one passing heavier than the last. My phone remains silent, but I can see the telltale sign: Read. Coco has seen my message, yet she doesn’t respond.
I tap my thumb against the phone, a nervous rhythm that matches the pulse of anxiety beginning to rise in my chest. And then, finally, I see the bubbles appear. She’s typing. But the dots vanish as quickly as they came. A long pause follows, too long for comfort. When her message finally appears, it feels like an eternity has passed.
Oh I just overslept…
Overslept?
I stare at the words on the screen, my brow furrowing as I reread them. Something about it doesn’t sit right with me. Coco doesn’t oversleep. Not when it comes to something like this. We were supposed to get here together.
I try to shake the doubt creeping in, telling myself that I’m overreacting and imagining things. But there’s something in the way her response feels clipped, almost hurried, as though she’s trying to close the conversation before it’s even started. It’s unlike her. Coco never holds back with me. If something was wrong, if she had a good reason for missing the flight, she would tell me. Wouldn’t she?
Or… maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the one projecting, reading too much into her response because I’m the one keeping secrets. I press the phone to my chest, exhaling slowly. I hate the way the guilt churns in my stomach, making everything feel wrong.
Because I am hiding something.
Coco is my best friend. We share everything, especially when it comes to men. Normally, if I had crossed paths with someone who made my heart skip a beat, someone who made me feel like I couldn’t catch my breath, Coco would be the first person to know. She would get an excited text from me, probably something cheesy like, “ Hey, I just met the most gorgeous man! You have no idea!” We’d laugh about it, I’d gush over his looks, and she’d tease me for being smitten. That’s how it’s always been between us… nothing hidden, nothing left unsaid.
But now? Now, I can’t say a word.
Because the man I’m feeling all those things for, the man who immediately started occupying far too many of my thoughts, is her father.
Mr. Davenport. Marcus.
His brown hair, streaked with just the slightest hint of silver, the way it falls across his forehead in that effortless manner, like he hasn’t given a second thought to how perfect it looks. His strong jawline, sharp and defined, and those eyes, blue and intense. Always watching, always observing. There’s something about the way he carries himself, a quiet confidence, a subtle strength that makes it impossible not to notice him. He’s the kind of man who commands attention without saying a word, and I feel drawn to him in ways that make my head spin.
I bite my lower lip, catching myself before I go any further. I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. It’s wrong. It’s ridiculous. I’ve only just met him, and yet here I am, already unraveling at the mere memory of him.
But God, the way he looked at me earlier… It was like he could see right through me.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts. This is insane. How on earth can I tell Coco that I’m attracted to her father? How could I ever explain that the man I can’t stop thinking about is the same man who should be off-limits in every possible way?
I stare down at my phone again, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, wanting to say something, to steer the conversation back to normal. But there’s no normal now. Not with this. Not with Marcus Davenport lingering in the back of my mind like a forbidden temptation I can’t escape.
Instead, I let the silence settle between us, my phone still in my hand.
And then a scent hits me. A tantalizing aroma floats up to my room, pulling me out of my thoughts and back into the present. It’s warm, rich, and comforting. My stomach grumbles softly in response, reminding me that it’s been hours since I last ate, and whatever is simmering downstairs smells far too good to ignore.
I slip on my slippers, smoothing out my shirt as I head for the door. My movements are quiet, tentative almost, but there’s an odd anticipation building in me. As I make my way down the staircase, I can hear faint sounds from the kitchen, cutlery clinking against plates, the soft shuffle of movement. The storm outside still rages, but in here, surrounded by the warmth and the scent of home cooked food, I feel a strange kind of peace.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the dining area. There, at the table, is Mr. Davenport, placing down a final plate with the same easy grace that seems to accompany everything he does. He hears me coming before I speak and looks up with a smile, a small, welcoming curve of his lips that somehow makes my heart stumble in my chest.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, his voice low and warm.
I return his smile, trying not to let the flutter of nerves in my stomach show as I walk to the table and take a seat.
Usually, this would be the part where I felt awkward and self conscious. Eating around new people is always a bit nerve-wracking for me, especially if that new person is an infuriatingly handsome man who has somehow managed to unsettle everything I thought I knew about attraction in the span of a few hours. But Mr. Davenport’s presence is different. There’s a calmness to him, an ease that washes over me as he sits across from me, making me forget the knot of anxiety that usually curls itself around my insides in moments like this.
And then there’s the food. The most appetizing plate of pasta I’ve ever seen.
I take my first bite and nearly melt into my seat. It’s delicious. Simple, yet rich with flavor in a way that feels like comfort wrapped in every morsel. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I started eating. But now, each bite feels like it’s easing something deep inside me, something I didn’t know I needed.
“You must have been starving,” he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches me dig into the meal with what I can only assume is the enthusiasm of a starving woman.
I pause, bashful for a moment, wiping my mouth quickly with the napkin. “It’s so tasty,” I offer, hoping the slight embarrassment doesn’t creep too visibly into my expression.
He waves it off, still smiling as he picks at his own plate, and to my surprise, conversation flows easily between us. It’s not like earlier during the drive, where every word I spoke felt clumsy, like it didn’t quite fit. Now, it’s different. I’m different. He makes it so natural, so effortless to talk to him, as though we’ve known each other far longer than a day. We speak about work, our lives on opposite sides of the spectrum. Me, living in words and stories. Him, with his empire in producing construction equipment and taking on projects that cost figures I can barely fathom. It’s a world of business and control that feels foreign to me but somehow fascinating when he talks about it.
And then we talk about Coco.
There’s a tenderness in his voice when he speaks about her, and I can’t help but be drawn in by it. It’s endearing to see how much he cares, the way his entire demeanor shifts when her name is mentioned, as if the world itself narrows down to her. I understand it, that fierce protectiveness, that need to shield her from anything that might hurt her. It mirrors my own feelings for her, though differently.
The conversation slows as we finish eating, and for a brief moment, the room falls quiet. All I hear is the soft hum of the storm outside, but even that feels distant.
I glance across the table at him. He’s still, watching me with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s not the same look I caught earlier, not exactly. But there’s something in his eyes, something I can’t quite place. My pulse quickens, the pull between us evident, like a current drawing me toward him even though I know I shouldn’t move.
Before I can fully grasp it, he speaks, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, but there’s a weight to his words.
“So… it seems you’re quite close to Coco. She’s never asked for anyone to join our vacation before,” he starts. It’s a safe conversation, one that eases the awkwardness without requiring too much commitment.
I smile. “Yeah, she’s my best friend. I’m grateful she thought to include me. She was just trying to help,” I respond.
I see his brows furrow as though he’s not sure if he should speak. “That’s right… Coco mentioned you were having a bit of a rough time.” His tone is careful, concerned, but not intrusive. Still, the words land heavily, hitting a nerve I wasn’t prepared for. “…She said you needed support right now. Is it something you’d want to talk about?”
The shift in conversation is startling. I wasn’t expecting him to go there. My heart skips a beat, anxiety curling like an icy hand around my throat. I can feel the familiar prickling at the back of my neck, a warning sign of the memories that are about to flood in, uninvited. Memories of pain, of dark, endless nights when I thought there was no way out. Of moments where I didn’t know if I could keep going.
I avert my gaze, staring down at my hands, my fingers tracing the edge of the napkin as I try to steady my breath. My throat feels dry, my pulse loud in my ears. He’s watching me. I can feel it, and it only makes the weight of my past feel more unbearable.
“Hey…” he says gently, his voice a little closer now, though I don’t look up. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
I’m not. I’m really not. But the last thing I want is to break down here, now, in front of him. I can’t talk about this, not yet. Not when I’m still piecing myself back together, trying to hold on to whatever fragile sense of stability I have left. I nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat, and manage to find my voice.
“This was a beautiful dinner, Mr. Davenport…” I stand, my chair scraping softly against the floor. “…but I’m exhausted. Excuse me.”
He doesn’t press me, doesn’t ask for more than I’m ready to give. His eyes are kind and understanding. I’m grateful.
“Of course,” he says, nodding as he rises from his seat. “Get some rest.”
I offer him a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I make my way back to my room. As soon as the door closes behind me, the weight of my feelings crashes down. My heart is racing, my breathing unsteady. I slip beneath the duvet, pulling it tight around myself as if I can ward off the swirling darkness threatening to take over my mind.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I focus on the immediate, the present. The warmth of the blankets, the soft hum of the storm outside, the pleasant ache of my full stomach, the memory of the easy conversation over dinner. And then… Mr. Davenport. The mere thought of him calms me, just enough. I cling to it. To the memory of his presence and to the safety of it. Slowly, ever so slowly, the tightness in my chest begins to loosen. My breathing evens out, and eventually, exhaustion takes over.
I drift off to sleep, holding onto the fragments of calm I’ve gathered.
And then…the calm shatters.
I wake with a start, heart racing as the sharp sound of a spark pierces through the silence, ripping me from the fragile peace of sleep. The house plunges into complete darkness, and the once subtle hum of electrical appliances vanishes in an instant, swallowed by the deafening roar of the storm outside. The wind screams against the walls, a relentless force that feels as though it’s clawing its way into the house, rattling windows and doors with savage intent. My pulse quickens, every nerve in my body snapping awake as terror grips me.
I reach for my phone. The cold light of the screen cuts through the blackness. It’s just past midnight, and with a shaky breath, I switch on the flashlight. The small beam casts long, eerie shadows across the room. The wind howls again, louder this time, almost as if it’s mocking my fear. A primal dread clenches in my chest, squeezing tight, and I know I can’t stay here, alone, in this suffocating darkness. I need to move. I need to find him.
I throw off the blankets and rush out of bed. My bare feet barely make a sound on the cold floor as I hurry into the hallway. My breath is coming fast now, shallow and uneven. Panic threatens to overtake me with every step. The storm outside feels alive and furious. I can hear the branches of trees thrashing violently against the side of the house while the wind’s wails grow louder and more insistent.
And then I see him.
Mr. Davenport appears at the end of the hallway, a flashlight in hand, his face illuminated by its steady glow. He moves toward me with the same calm authority that always seems to follow him, as though the chaos outside could never touch him. His presence, even in this moment, is a balm to my frayed nerves. I stop in my tracks, breathless, but relieved beyond words to see him.
“I was just about to come check on you. Are you alright?” His voice, low and soothing, cuts through the noise of the storm like a lifeline.
I nod, though the tightness in my chest betrays my attempt at composure. “Yes… I’m fine,” I say, though my voice trembles slightly. “What happened?”
“The wind,” he replies, his tone reassuring. “It’s caused an electrical problem. The power’s out.” He pauses for a moment, reading the fear that I haven’t quite hide. “But don’t worry,” he continues, that unflinching calm never wavering. “There’s a backup generator. It won’t power the entire house, but it’ll keep the living room lit, and the fireplace can keep us warm.”
The way he speaks is so assuring. It makes the situation seem almost mundane, as if a storm strong enough to knock out the power were nothing more than a passing inconvenience. He turns, heading toward the back door without another word. I’m left standing in the hallway, momentarily frozen by the contrast between his unwavering composure and the chaos that rages just beyond the walls.
Minutes later, the living room comes back to life. The soft glow of lamplight spills into the room as the backup generator comes on. The wind continues its relentless assault outside. But in here, the space is warm from the fire in the hearth that crackles softly. It’s as though the storm has been reduced to a distant threat.
Mr. Davenport walks back in, the flashlight now turned off, and glances at me as he crosses the room. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern as he sits down across from me on the couch.
I’m not sure if I am. My heart is still pounding; the fear is still gnawing at the edges of my mind. It’s strange how quickly he can settle me, how his calm becomes my calm, how the storm seems to lose its power the moment he’s near.
For a while, we sit there in silence. The wind still howls and the storm still rages, but in this room, there’s only the soft crackle of the fire and the quiet rise and fall of our breathing. The quiet isn’t uncomfortable; it’s not the silence that makes me feel alone. Instead, it’s a shared stillness, a moment suspended in time where the world outside doesn’t matter, and the storm doesn’t exist.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His profile is illuminated by the firelight, his features softened by its flickering glow. There’s a serenity in his expression, the same unshakable composure that’s been there since the moment I first met him. But now, sitting here with him, there’s something more, something I can’t quite put into words. It’s a quiet understanding that I can’t explain.
I close my eyes, taking a slow, steadying breath as I let the warmth of the room and his presence seep into me. The fear fades, little by little.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to trust the quiet.
***