Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alyssa
The jet lands so quietly I almost don’t believe we’ve touched the ground. Outside the cabin windows, San Cristóbal stretches into the distance—dark hills cradling the city, the moon hanging low and thin above the skyline.
An entire crew is waiting for us on the tarmac. Men in matching jackets unload luggage I forgot we brought. A woman with dark braids and a clipboard greets Dexter in Spanish. He answers her with an ease I didn’t expect—his voice low, warm, completely at home in the rhythm of another language.
Of course, he speaks Spanish.
It shouldn’t surprise me. This guy seems like just an average person, but he has a lot of layers tucked beneath that easy smile and quiet charm. There’s a softness in him that doesn’t match the headlines or the swagger I expected. And it’s hard—not just to like him, but to stop liking him.
Hard not to see past the way we met.
Hard not to want more, even when I know better.
We’re ushered into a black SUV that smells like leather and citrus.
During the ride, I lean against the window, the chill of the glass grounding me as I watch the road snake through open stretches of desert brush and low adobe homes, their silhouettes quiet under the vast, ink-blue sky.
A few windows still glow with life—warm pools of light in the middle of nowhere.
Dexter doesn’t speak.
He just looks at me, his gaze more still than the desert outside. He watches me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Like he’s trying to memorize the way I sit when I’m tired, the shape of my profile.
And something about that breaks me a little.
Because I know that look.
It’s the look people give things they’re afraid they can’t keep what they have: like a view from an airplane window. A song that ends too soon. Someone they never expected to want this much.
I feel it in my throat. In my spine. In that too-quiet part of me that still expects everything good to fade. But somehow I think this is good. It’d be great if it could happen.
And this—whatever this is between us—it feels good. It could be more than good, if we let it.
A part of me wants to believe it’s real.
The other? The other part already misses him.
Like some version of this moment is already ending.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most—not the lies. But how deeply I want this to last, even when I know it can’t.
The air shifts when we pull through a set of iron gates and onto a winding drive carved into the earth like it’s always been there.
Low brush lines the road—clusters of agave, a few tall palms swaying lazily in the breeze coming off the ocean.
Dust rises behind us, soft and golden under the moonlight.
And then I see it.
The house unfolds in pieces, rising into view slowly.
It sits high on the bluff, facing the open water, as if it’s been watching the tide for decades.
Stucco walls glow a soft cream in the moonlight, with expansive balconies edged in sun-faded tile and flowering vines that twist along the columns like they’ve grown wild and unbothered.
Light spills from the windows—soft and amber—framed in dark wood. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and something warm, like citrus and worn stone baked by the sun.
We pull in at the base of a short stone staircase. The front door is already open, warm light beckoning us inside.
But I don’t move.
Not at first.
Because this place . . . it’s beyond anything I imagined.
It’s beautiful in a way that feels lived-in.
The car stops, crunching to a soft halt on the gravel drive. One of the crew opens my door before I have the chance to reach for it myself, but it’s Dexter who’s suddenly there, hand outstretched, palm open like he’s done this a thousand times and still doesn’t take it for granted.
I hesitate—just for a second—but place my hand in his.
Warm. Sure.
And when I step out, he doesn’t let go.
We walk up the stone steps side by side, his fingers still tangled with mine like we’re about to cross into something sacred and he doesn’t want to lose the thread of whatever this is. He pushes the front door open, and I have to stop.
Inside, it’s even more breathtaking.
The floors are wide-plank wood, sun-warmed and worn smooth.
A long, soft rug stretches across the entryway, muted colors woven into an old pattern that feels more remembered than designed.
To the left, an open living room breathes with space—high ceilings, arched windows cracked open to let in the breeze.
A stone fireplace rests in the corner, framed by low shelves filled with books, driftwood, and sea-worn shells like someone’s been collecting moments instead of things.
I wander forward slowly, brushing my fingers along the edge of a worn leather armchair.
There’s a piano in the corner.
On the far side of the room, a stack of vinyl records sits beside a stereo. One of them is flipped backward, and handwritten notes are scribbled on the sleeve.
Somehow I feel like this house has him in it. Everywhere. But not the version I met at the hotel which he swears he’s let only a few see. Nope. This is the real one. The man behind the music and the fame, the glasses and the smirk and of course the bad reputation.
This is the man who’s letting me see past all of it.
I glance over my shoulder, and he’s still beside me—hand wrapped gently around mine, thumb brushing absent-minded circles along my knuckles like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
His eyes scan the room like he’s seeing it through me, not for the first time, but like it matters now in a way it never did before. As if he’s waiting to see if I’ll stay.
“This place is gorgeous,” I whisper.
He smiles, slow and shy. “I had the feeling you’d like it.”
“You brought me to paradise,” I murmur, still stunned. “On a Sunday.”
“I told you,” he says, stepping closer. “I want your Monday and Tuesday mornings too.”
I don’t know what to do with that. With him.
We linger in the living room, walking through it like we’ve already been here before. Like this is a memory we’re stepping back into instead of a first.
He shows me the kitchen. The tile is old, the appliances new. There’s a loaf of fresh bread on the counter and a note from someone named Isela who apparently comes in the mornings to cook if we want.
He says it casually. Like it’s normal.
It’s not.
None of this is.
And yet I don’t want to leave.
“I’ll show you the rooms,” he says, finally, voice quiet now. “Yours is at the end of the hall.”
“Where will you be sleeping?” I ask, glancing up.
He nods, then motions down a hallway bathed in golden light. “I figured you might want space.”
Do I want space? Honestly, I’m not sure and maybe I’m too tired to decide either way.
“This is where we part.” We pause just outside a wooden door.
“Thank you,” I say, hand still resting on the handle. “For bringing me here. For not . . . expecting anything.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“I want you to feel safe,” he says.
I nod.
He leans forward—slow, tentative—and kisses my cheek. His lips linger just long enough to make my pulse stutter.
And then—without asking for more—he steps back.
“Goodnight, Aly.”
I turn the handle. Step inside.
But before I close the door, I say it back.
“Goodnight, Dex.”
I press my back to the door and take a breath that shakes at the edges.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But I know what tonight gave, me and maybe that’s enough.
I fall asleep in clothes I didn’t change out of, pulled halfway off the bed, one shoe on, the other kicked under the duvet like I lost the will to care somewhere between brushing my teeth and replaying his kiss for the hundredth time.
Sleep drags me under without a fight.
And I wake early—too early—but without alarm.
It’s a morning silence that feels holy. Like the world hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, and you get to exist inside it untouched for a few sacred moments.
The sky outside is streaked in gold, the faintest blush of dawn spreading across the horizon. The curtains are parted just enough for the light to sneak in—soft, muted, and full of permission.
I sit up slowly, hair tangled, mascara probably smudged, and stare at the pale blue water beyond the glass. The pool is still, untouched. The palm trees lean gently toward the terrace, as if offering shade to no one in particular. One of the chaises is perfectly positioned for sunrise.
And I realize all at once that I’ve been chasing quiet all my life. Maybe I found it.
It’s not the silence, but a quiet that lets me exhale without bracing for the next disaster or whatever needs to be fixed.
I rise from the bed, the tile cool against my feet, grounding me just enough to remind me this isn’t a dream.
The suitcase sits quietly in the corner, half-unzipped like it’s been waiting for me to notice it.
Inside, I find an ocean-blue swimsuit I definitely don’t remember buying, as well as a loose, gauzy tunic with the tags still dangling.
Jules must’ve slipped them in, probably while muttering something like “just in case he has a pool,” with that smug psychic instinct of hers.
My best friend and I will be having words. Eventually.
But not now.
I carry the bundle to the bathroom and close the door behind me, as if I’m sealing in a new version of myself.
The shower is bigger than my entire kitchen back home.
I take my time, letting the water cascade down in warm, slow ribbons that feel more like a blessing than a rinse.
Shampoo that smells like gardenias lathers in my hair, soft and floral and too luxurious for someone who’s been running on caffeine and stress for the last month—maybe a few years.
I drag my fingers through my hair carefully, tenderly. Like I’m trying to untangle more than knots. Like I’m convincing myself I belong here. In this house. In this version of my life. In the aftermath of a kiss that changed everything.
A moment I can’t take back.
A moment I don’t want to.
If only I knew what comes next.
By the time I step out, the villa is still quiet. No sound from down the hall. Just the gentle hum of distant waves and birds I can’t name. I pull on the swimsuit and layer the tunic over it. It slips over my skin like breath. Loose. Barefoot. Bare-faced.
I cross the tile again, this time toward the tall glass door that leads out to the terrace.
I hesitate for half a second—like I might be waking something up—and then press the handle down.
It opens without a sound.
And the air hits my skin like a whisper.
Damp heat. Sea salt. A sweetness I can’t place. Something alive and still ancient. Something that says stay.
I step outside.
The terrace stretches wide and open, the tiles still cool beneath my feet. A low wall marks the edge where the pool ends and the rest of the world begins—a slow slope down to the beach, where the sand lies golden and coarse, sun-warmed even now.
The sky blushes higher as the sun rises—soft pinks, warm golds, the last breath of night slipping away. I lean on the railing, elbows resting on cool stone, and look out where the water meets the sky. Where waves curl and break and whisper secrets I’d forgotten I was allowed to hear.
I’ve spent so long trying to hold things together—events, timelines, other people’s expectations—that I forgot what it felt like to simply be somewhere.
To not pretend that I’m okay and I can handle everything and anything.
To not apologize for taking up space.
And now I’m here. In someone else’s world. In a house I didn’t know existed until yesterday, with a man who’s rewriting everything I thought I knew about him—and about myself.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I close my eyes, let the breeze lift the hem of my tunic, and try not to think about Monday. Or the silence that might follow this.
The door behind me clicks softly.
I turn.
Dexter’s there—barefoot, bleary-eyed, hair a little wild. His T-shirt is wrinkled, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, and somehow he looks better than he did last night. Less guarded. Like he’s half-dream, half-real.
He pauses when he sees me, his gaze catching and holding like he wasn’t expecting me to be here. Or maybe like he was, and hoped I hadn’t disappeared.
“Hey,” he says softly, like the word might scare me off.
“Hey.”
His eyes scan me and there’s something reverent in the way he looks at me.
“You sleep okay?” he asks, stepping outside.
I nod. “Eventually.”
“I figured you were out cold when I checked in on you.”
“You checked in?”
His expression turns sheepish. “Yeah. Just . . . stood outside your door like an idiot for a minute. Knocked and when there was no answer, I walked away.”
“I wish I had been awake.”
“It was for the best,” he murmurs. “If I’d seen you, I might not have let you go.”
A beat passes.
He walks to the railing beside me, rests his arms on it the same way I did, close enough that I can feel the heat of him but not quite touching.
“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he says, watching the water.
“No one?”
He shakes his head. “Not my manager. Not the guys.” He points at everything. “It was my grandparents’. Grandma loved this place. She called it her little piece of heaven on earth. There’s a trust to keep it up. That’s why it looks updated.”
“You come often?”
“Honestly, it’s been a while since I did,” he confesses. “I was too lost to remember the best place.”
I glance at him, surprised. “Why today?”
He shrugs. “Why not?” He responds with a question, but I feel like there’s a lot behind his motives.
I just nod slowly, unsure what to say to that. Unsure what it means that I’m here now. That we are.
“You hungry?” he asks, changing the subject gently. “Isela left fresh fruit. There’s coffee. Or I could make you eggs and burn the toast.”
I laugh. “Let’s start with the fruit.”
He smiles, then glances back at the house. “Come on. Let me feed you.”
I follow him inside, heart full and aching.