Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Tom
We’re driving through that endless terracotta landscape again.
Aloe, cacti, and nothing else in sight but the yellow glow of the moon and the silver sea of stars. It feels like we’re the only two people left awake on the island. Just him and me.
I start to recognize the curves in the backroad he takes after Santa Catalina. Within minutes, we’re back at his place.
I follow him inside, and man, I can’t believe how wrecked I feel. My mind’s already half asleep, muscles sore.
I step over a paint can and dodge a drill on the floor. The house feels different than it did this afternoon. It looks like a still life painting where a lot’s happening, and each object has its story.
I glance around at the unfinished walls, the open wiring like exposed nerves, and yeah, it’s obvious. He stopped midway through fixing this place. Put it all down. Walked away.
My best guess is that he got overwhelmed and now pretends all of this isn’t here.
I see it in the way he walks through the mess, not even looking at it, heading straight to the bedroom.
That’s where today decides to surprise me one more time.
The room is… done. White walls. Clean lines. Minimal, but not cold. It actually feels so him.
Built-in closets along one wall. There’s a shelf with crystals lined up so precisely, I swear he measured the distance between each one and the edge of the shelf with a ruler.
Same goes for the aloe plant on the windowsill and the candles on the side table.
In the center: a double bed. Made to perfection. Mint-green sheets folded so sharp I could cut my fingers on them. Or worse, my cock.
Not that it’s getting any action tonight aside from taking a wee.
I’m drained. Besides, I’ve already maxed out my flirt credits for the day.
And sure, he seems responsive to my advances. Let’s call it that, but I’m not an idiot. There’s only so much one person can take, and the last thing I want is for my somewhat persistent charm to push him the wrong way.
The man’s a delicate lotus flower. All my instincts say he needs to clear his head after a day like this.
Still, if he wants to do something unholy under those perfect sheets, who am I to act like a saint?
“Your bedroom’s really nice,” I say, taking it all in. “Peaceful.”
He flashes me a soft smile, opening one of the closets to pull out a stack of towels.
“This was the one space I needed finished first. From here, I’ll tackle the rest.”
“Why?” I ask, lowkey obsessed with the way his brain works.
“A good night’s sleep is the foundation of everything. It’s when you process the day, recharge, reduce stress, repair your muscles and cells. You know what it’s like when you’ve been awake all night.”
My throat tightens. Yeah, I do.
“Everything here's meant to help me feel at ease.”
I’m genuinely impressed.
“I could learn a lot from you.”
I mean it. I’ve spent my whole life rushing from city to city, project to project. Always chasing the next thing, never really taking a break.
Truth is, I didn’t dare. I was afraid of what would happen if I actually did.
He lets out a very cute laugh.
“You can take the bed. Bathroom's next door. The toilet works, but you need to shower outside. I’m sleeping in the hammock.”
Yeah, no. That’s not happening.
“Come on, Yosh. You’re not sleeping outside, the mosquitoes will eat you alive. I’ve shared beds with people I barely knew— night trains in Thailand, sketchy back rooms of Kraków nightclubs. Trust me, I don’t mind.”
He hesitates. Maybe he’s used to being alone, guarding his space, but that wall he’s built around himself? It’s cracking. Slowly. Quietly. I’m waiting patiently for it to collapse. In the meantime, I don’t want to push.
“If you’d rather have your own space, that’s okay too. Just don’t sleep outside for my sake.”
He stares like he’s weighing all the risks, then nods like he’s still not sure. I’ll take it as a win.
“Here, take a towel,” he says, tossing one at me. “And grab something from the closet. My shirts will look good on you.” He smirks like he’s proud of himself.
I bark out a laugh. Yesterday he tried so hard to pretend he hadn’t heard that. Now I know for sure he was tripping over his own damn chakras.
“I know your shirts will look good on me, love, but don’t you worry about me.” I unzip my bag. “Three extra sets. Always. Life of a musician.”
I toss the shirts and some underwear onto the bed. Even my toothbrush goes everywhere with me.
But I do grab the towel, and without another word, I head outside for a shower under the stars.
The outdoor shower’s tucked behind a row of palm trees, half hidden in the dark. When I turn the tap, a thin stream of lukewarm water spills out. Barely any pressure, but it’s enough to wash the salt and sweat from my skin.
It’s quiet out here. Really quiet. Just the hiss of the water and the low hum of crickets somewhere off in the distance.
I tilt my head, facing the sky. Palm leaves sway gently overhead. The moon breaks through in flashes with every soft gust of wind.
I get why he fell for this place. It feels like the fucking garden of Eden out here.
With the towel knotted loosely around my hips, I head back inside. I find Yosh in the kitchen, barefoot, holding a glass of water. His eyes lift as I enter.
“How was it?”
“Perfect,” I say, rolling my shoulders. “Feels good to wash off the day.”
The bedroom has cooled down, thanks to the AC. It makes me sleepy, so I dry myself off fast, and pull on some boxer briefs and a fresh shirt.
The bed is practically calling my name. The moment I slide under the sheets, I let out a breath that feels like the longest one I’ve taken all day.
Fuck, these sheets, they feel insanely good. Soft, breathable, perfectly cool against my skin.
I’d bet money he spent at least a full week obsessing over which ones to buy. Probably got them from some fancy Scandinavian company no one knows how to pronounce. There’s no way you’d find this kind of quality on the island.
I mean, no offense to the Emerald Resort, but they’ve got nothing on this. And let me tell you, I’ve spent my fair share of time in five star hotels.
I scroll through my phone. Joanie sent another batch of messages, stage photos from god-knows-where. I try to place the venue, but nothing clicks. Doesn’t matter. She looks alive, and I love that.
I send her a string of hearts before tossing my phone onto the bedside table.
My eyelids are already closed when Yosh enters the room, his footsteps soft as he tiptoes around the bed, completely unaware I’ve been forcing myself to stay awake.
He stops only inches away. I can feel him staring, probably deciding whether my aura needs fixing. Then he tugs the blankets higher over my shoulders. I can't stop pretending now.
Three steps to the rattan cupboard, the careful scrape of a brush through wet hair.
I open my eyes a sliver and I’m able to watch him in the reflection of the mirror.
He’s only wearing boxers, and I’m taking in every detail of those incredible, perfectly shaped glutes.
Damn, I feel like a creep. Lying here pretending to be asleep, just to secretly admire every part of him.
It’s not just his body that leaves me thirsty as fuck. It’s the ink that gets me too.
That serpent on his back is a fucking masterpiece, detailed with symbolic patterns that surely mean something, but I’m left guessing.
My eyes linger on the artwork until I notice a pattern along his left shoulder. Faint dimples, shallow cuts, burned patches of skin.
Scars.
I follow them down his chest. I hadn’t noticed them before. Now I can’t unsee them. They’re everywhere on his upper torso.
Shit.
They have to be from Afghanistan.
He didn’t want to get into it, that much was obvious.
So I let it go.
But seeing this…it hits hard. I can see the survival, the pain he’s been through.
I hate myself for it, because when I shared the darkest day of my life with him, he didn’t look at or treat me any differently. I owe him that. He deserves better from me.
And to do that, I say the most ridiculous, thoughtless thing I can think of.
“Your hair looks beautiful. It’s always so fucking shiny.”
His lips twitch into something that looks like amusement.
Smooth McKenna. Really subtle. Like I’m pretending not to see the scars right next to that silky hair.
He lowers the brush, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“Yours too,” he murmurs, turning over his shoulder to me.
“Your hair, amber as the morning sun. It’s rare.”
My face burns immediately. I nervously run a hand through my curls, which only makes his eyes gleam more, shy and genuine, before he turns back to the mirror and starts braiding his hair.
“I need to apologize, Tom.”
“Apologize? For what?”
“I don’t drink and sometimes I’m so deep in my bubble that I forget others do. It was wrong to put you in that situation at the beach earlier. I fucked up.”
I roll onto my back with a groan.
“Please. The last thing on my mind was alcohol. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“It’s not about whether you were tempted. It’s about me needing to keep you out of situations that could tempt you in the first place.”
He stares at the floor now, fingers threading through the strands. I hate seeing him this conflicted. He doesn’t need to. Not with me.
“Thanks. That means a lot to me, seriously. But let me tell you what really happened. Zion did offer me a drink, and I don’t mean to sound spoiled or anything, but life’s too short for American piss water. On the rocks, or even worse, mixed with Coke? That’s a bloody crime.”
That gets a laugh out of him.
He lifts the sheets and slides in beside me, keeping a very very deliberate few inches between us.
“Call it cliché,” I say. “But where I come from, whisky’s a serious matter. People get into fist fights over it.”
He rolls onto his side, one arm folded beneath the pillow.
“God, I sometimes forget how very Scottish you are.”
“Oh, do you?”
I know he loves my accent. Everyone does. I even rough it up with a bit of dockyard grit. Joan calls it my bad boy accent. I call it foreplay.
The way he looks at me now? Oh he wants it bad. Wants to get railed by this filthy-mouthed bad boy.
But what’s he waiting for? What am I waiting for? I don’t know.
In my head it’s simple. Say something smooth. Tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, cup his face, kiss. Let my hands wander like they always do.
That was the blueprint once, but now, I want more than that.
And that’s the problem I can’t untangle. How to want more without creating a catastrophe.
I turn to stare up at the ceiling. From the corner of my eye, I catch the silhouette of his face, half-lit in the dark.
I pick up the rhythm of his breathing. They are long slow breaths that totally mess with my own the more I pay attention to them.
I’m nervous as hell, the crickets outside more present than they should be. It feels like we’re trapped in some awful B-movie.
Time to end this psychological torture.
“What are your plans for the house?”
That question instantly relaxes his shoulders.
“Bathroom first,” he says, pulling the sheet over his shoulder. “Then the living room. I want to make it white and clean. After that, wiring and ceiling. Kitchen and second bedroom come last.”
I bite my lip. Just listening gives me a headache. This place indeed needs a full resurrection.
“Sounds intense. What about that tree in the shed? Are you going to cut it down?”
He makes an offended noise followed by a soft laugh, as if I've just suggested something outrageous.
“Hell no. I'm tearing down the shed. The tree stays. It belongs here.”
A little smile tugs at his mouth, almost shy.
It’s a small thing, but it’s so him. The way his expression softens when he says those words. How many times a day can my chest do funny things?
“Please stay like this, Yosh. Don’t ever change for anyone.”
I’ve got no clue where that came from, but I meant every damn word I just whispered.
He looks away, swallowing something down.
Am I pushing too far? Probably. But there’s a depth to Yosh I clocked the first time we met in Arcadia. I want him to know I see it. That I see him.
And I get it, vulnerability isn’t exactly his strong suit. He doesn’t practice what he preaches, and I’ve pieced together that he’s the type to run when things get too intense.
I recognized the act as I perfected it myself over the years.
So I'll give him time. Even if those half-answers and silences about personal stuff drive me insane. I won’t rush him.
He gives me that same space without expecting anything back.
He doesn’t want to fix me. He just lets me be.
Yeah. Maybe that’s what not fucking everything up looks like.