38 - The Day That Didnt Belong to Time
Late-afternoon sunlight dripped like molten gold between the ancient buildings, sliding down their weathered fa?ades and settling into the grooves between centuries-old cobblestones.
The light didn't merely illuminate the city—it touched it, stroking the stone, coaxing color from faded shutters and dressing each narrow street in a quiet kind of majesty.
Scarlett moved through that amber-soaked world as though she were both observer and apparition.
Her fingertips brushed the uneven stone walls—ridges, dips, the rough coolness of time solidified.
Every texture grounded her body while her mind drifted elsewhere, far from the tourists, far from the clink of plates from street cafés, far from anything recognizable.
The city breathed around her, exhaling warm air and history in every alleyway. Even the stillness had a pulse. It whispered to her—of other lives, other eras, other wandering souls who had once sought something unnamed exactly where she was now.
Scarlett felt like she was moving through someone else's memory.
Not lost... but unanchored.
Untethered.
Suspended in-between.
A scent curved around a corner and tugged her back into the present—fresh pastries, ground coffee, sweet vanilla, warm sugar.
It threaded through her thoughts until she turned toward it, letting it guide her through a narrow passage flanked by ivy-draped walls.
The vines hung thick and winding, leaves fluttering in the breeze like tiny, beckoning hands.
A small café emerged, tucked like a secret between two old stone buildings.
A hand-painted sign swung lazily overhead, its edges weathered and softened by time.
Wrought-iron tables spilled onto the sidewalk, each one occupied—locals sipping tiny cups of espresso, chatty families breaking off flaky pastries, tourists lifting cameras toward some building that had seen more years than they had breaths.
Scarlett paused.
Something about the place shimmered—an intangible warmth, a beckoning glow. Jazz, soft and mellow, drifted from inside, its notes floating out through the open doorway like an invitation.
She stepped into the café without realizing she'd made the decision.
Inside, the air shifted instantly—richer, thicker. The scent of espresso grounded the space, mingling with vanilla and the faint musk of old books stacked on wooden shelves that lined the cream-colored walls. Rustic beams stretched overhead, darkened by time, their presence comforting, protective.
Mismatched chairs crowded around tiny tables.
Worn leather armchairs sagged in the soft, inviting way of furniture that had held countless stories.
The baristas behind the marble counter moved with the practiced choreography of people who had learned to dance with cups, milk steamers, and stainless-steel pitchers.
Scarlett inhaled deeply.
The atmosphere felt lived-in. Familiar in a way she couldn't explain.
She approached the counter and offered the barista a small smile.
"I'll have a cappuccino, please."
The barista—a young woman with an intricate floral tattoo climbing her forearm—nodded, returning the smile with one warm enough to soften even the hardest day.
Scarlett leaned lightly against the counter, letting the hum of the café wash over her—the low murmur of conversations, the clinking of porcelain, the squeak of a door that had seen too much use. It was soothing. She let her eyes drift closed for a brief moment.
And then—
A voice behind her.
Low. Warm. Familiar in a way that struck her like a pulse she hadn't felt in years.
"Make it two."
She froze.
The sound threaded through her body before her mind caught up. Her breath hitched, her spine straightened, and she turned slowly—afraid she'd imagined it.
But there he was.
Andrian Davies.
The past wrapped in living form. Artfully tousled hair, dark jeans, a soft gray henley clinging just right—and those hazel eyes with flecks of amber catching the café lights like shards of hidden fire.
He looked like a memory made dangerously real.
"Andrian?" Her voice cracked, brushing disbelief.
The smile he gave was infuriatingly casual, as if running into her across an ocean was no more surprising than bumping into someone at the grocery store.
"Scarlett."
Her shock sharpened into suspicion. Her heart, always too responsive where he was concerned, stuttered into an unsteady rhythm.
"Did you follow me?" she asked, half-joking, half-serious.
Andrian placed a hand on his chest in exaggerated offense.
"Ouch. You wound me."
Despite every intention not to let him disarm her so quickly, she felt a reluctant smirk tug at her mouth.
Same old Andrian.
Always performing.
Always impossible to predict.
"Sorry," she murmured.
The barista returned with two cappuccinos, setting them carefully on the counter. Andrian reached forward—and the back of his hand brushed hers. A glancing touch. Barely there.
But the spark it sent through her was unmistakable.
He pretended not to notice.
Of course he did.
"Shall we?" he asked, nodding toward the outside tables.
Scarlett hesitated only a second before following.
They stepped into the golden warmth of late-day sunlight and found a small iron table bathed in soft radiance. They settled into their seats. The city's bustle—a mix of languages, laughter, distant camera clicks—softened until it felt like muted background noise in a film.
Andrian didn't take his eyes off her.
"What brings you here?" he asked.
Scarlett ran a fingertip along the table's edge in slow, absent circles.
"A getaway. I needed... distance. Clarity. Something."
He lifted a brow, teasing.
"Spontaneous Scarlett. I never thought I'd see the day."
She scoffed. "I can be spontaneous."
"I'll believe it when I see it. The Scarlett I remember kept planners with backup planners."
She fought the way her lips twitched. "People change."
"Do they?" he asked softly.
And the way he said it—curious, not challenging—unsettled her more than judgment ever could.
The conversation unfolded with surprising ease.
Their banter warmed, weaving between light teasing and unguarded moments.
Stories spilled across the small table—his travels, her months of feeling misplaced in her own life.
Somehow he made her laugh in a way that untangled knots she hadn't realized were there.
His phone buzzed once on the table.
He glanced at the light, then flipped it face down without reading it.
A small gesture.
But it landed like something more.
They sipped cappuccinos, and the sunlight shifted, sliding over them, painting them in gold and shadow.
"You haven't changed," he said suddenly, studying her. "You still make that same face when you're pretending not to care."
Heat crept into her cheeks. She stood abruptly.
"I should go."
But Andrian reached across the table, fingertips brushing her wrist in a silent plea that felt more like a pulse.
"Come with me," he said softly.
The tone was different now—neither flirtation nor seduction.
It felt like an invitation into a moment neither of them had expected.
She hesitated. Just a heartbeat.
"Where?" she breathed.
"Trust me."
And she did.
The speedboat hit the waves with a confident slice of white foam.
Scarlett clung to the metal railing as the vessel surged forward, each swell sending a thrilling ripple through her chest. Wind tangled her hair, flinging strands across her face.
Her sundress billowed like a loose petal in the breeze.
Behind her, the marina shrank until it was nothing but a blur of lights and waving silhouettes. Andrian stood at the helm, one hand steady on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing through his hair—which kept falling into his eyes in a way that looked effortlessly cinematic.
She expected him to smirk, to turn this into a game.
He didn't.
He caught her gaze and offered a smile softer than she remembered, one that didn't hide behind wit.
"You okay?" he shouted against the wind.
Scarlett threw her arms wide, letting the air carry them.
"Better than okay!"
Her laughter tore loose—wild, uncontained. It startled even her.
Andrian's expression flickered—surprise, then something like awe.
For a moment, he looked at her as if she were something luminous.
Something he hadn't expected to find today.
"Hold on," he called.
He pointed ahead.
An island came into view—crescent-shaped, ringed with white sands that shimmered like powdered pearls. The water surrounding it glowed with impossible clarity, turquoise deepening into sapphire.
Scarlett's breath caught.
The boat slowed as it glided into a secluded inlet. The dock creaked under Andrian's weight as he hopped lightly onto it, then extended his hand toward her.
She took it.
His fingers curled around hers—firm, warm—and something shifted between them. Something unspoken but undeniably there.
The sand met her bare feet like warm silk. Palms swayed overhead, casting dancing shadows over the shore. Birds sang in soft, mellifluous patterns, like they were orchestrating a soundtrack meant just for this moment.
"This is unreal," she whispered.
Andrian didn't look at the scenery.
He looked at her.
"I'm glad you like it."
They walked along the shoreline, the waves kissing their ankles. They collected seashells—he handed her one shaped like a spiral heart; she pretended not to read into it. They skipped stones—his landed with perfect skips; hers plunked immediately, and he teased her until she splashed him.
And he splashed her back.
Her laughter rose again, unguarded and bright.
"You're different when you laugh like that," he said, brushing droplets from his hair. "Lighter."
She rolled her eyes. "Stop analyzing me."
"I'm not analyzing," he said with a small, sincere smile. "Just noticing."
The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in streaks of rose and gold. They perched on a rocky ledge, feet dangling over the surf as the tide sighed below.
Scarlett stared toward the horizon, her voice softer now.
"I don't know what would've happened today if you hadn't shown up. I've been feeling... lost."
Andrian didn't turn to study her this time. He looked out at the water with her, as if understanding required sharing her view.
"You've been drifting," he said. "I can tell."
She huffed a quiet laugh. "That obvious?"
"Not to most people," he murmured. "But you... when you're present, it changes the whole room. When you disappear, everything dims."
Her breath hitched.
"And what about you?" she asked. "What happens to Andrian when I'm around?"
His fingers curled reflexively into the sand.
"I don't bring many people to places like this," he said simply.
Scarlett looked at him—really looked. Beneath the charm, beneath the cleverness, something steadier waited. Something she hadn't seen before.
"You're not what I remember," she said quietly.
He glanced at her, a small, almost vulnerable smile passing over his mouth.
"Neither are you."
They lingered until the sky deepened into violet and the first stars winked to life.
Neither wanted to leave.
The boat hummed softly as they headed back toward the mainland. The sea, no longer sunlit, held a deep, almost hypnotic shade of blue. Scarlett sat near the bow with her knees pulled to her chest, the wind threading through her hair in wild, tangled strokes.
A shiver crept up her arms.
Without a word, Andrian approached, slipped out of his linen shirt, and draped it gently over her shoulders. The fabric held the fading warmth of his body and smelled faintly of sandalwood, salt, and something uniquely him.
She looked up at him, startled.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He nodded, not looking at her—but she caught the subtle tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Lights from the harbor flickered into view, scattered across the shoreline like fallen stars. The world waited for them there—messy, familiar, real.
Scarlett wasn't ready.
At the dock, he secured the ropes with practiced motions. The night air hummed with restaurant laughter and the clinking of glasses. The scent of grilled fish and citrus drifted through the marina.
He offered her his hand again.
She took it.
And this time, neither let go quickly.
But eventually their fingers loosened, as all moments must.
"I should get you back to your hotel," he said.
"I can manage," she answered—though a piece of her wished he would insist.
He didn't. He just walked beside her, silent but present.
"Thank you for today," she said softly. "It was... wonderful."
He stopped and turned toward her, the golden lights outlining his profile in warm brilliance.
"Anytime, Scarlett," he said.
The way he spoke her name felt like a hand brushing down her spine.
They walked until the noise of the marina softened. At the edge of the main road, she paused. Adjusted her bag. Filling the silence with small motions.
"I guess this is it," she said quietly.
Andrian watched her, something flickering behind his eyes—a flash of longing quickly disguised with ease.
"Flying back tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He nodded. "I'm glad I ran into you today."
"Me too," she admitted—then wished she hadn't said it so honestly.
They exchanged smiles too fragile to be smirks.
Scarlett extended her hand. Too formal. Too final.
"Well... goodbye, Andrian."
He looked at her hand, then gently took her wrist instead.
"Come here," he murmured.
He pulled her into a slow, deliberate embrace. One arm around her waist. The other cupping the back of her neck. Her cheek pressed to his chest, where she felt the steady beat of his heart—solid, grounding.
She melted into him.
"I'll find you again," he whispered into her hair. "In the most common place in the world. When you least expect it."
She pulled back slightly. "What does that mean?"
He gave her a mysterious, maddening half-smile.
"It means some things are meant to be. And some people always find their way back to each other."
A tremor passed through her—soft and deep.
He let her go slowly, his hands trailing along her arms until the last possible second.
"I hope this isn't goodbye forever," he said.
"I'm sure we'll meet again," she said—though her voice wavered.
"Oh," he added with quiet certainty, "we definitely will. Sooner than you think."
She didn't challenge him.
Scarlett gave him one last look—one last soft, shadowed smile—then stepped into the flow of pedestrians. The breeze caught her hair. The night gathered her gently.
She didn't look back.
She didn't have to.
His words stayed with her.
Like a lingering warmth.
Like a promise.
Andrian watched her disappear into the swirl of lights and strangers. Her auburn hair caught the glow, turning briefly into a flame before dissolving into the crowd.
His smirk faded.
Something softer took its place, something only the night could see.
He breathed in. The faint scent of jasmine and vanilla lingered, like an echo of her presence—impossible to hold but impossible to ignore.
He murmured her name once under his breath.
"Scarlett..."
She had always been a complexity he couldn't unlock. Composed yet restless, poised yet carrying storms inside. Today had only deepened the mystery.
He pulled out his phone—not to check messages but to scroll through the photos from the island. He paused on one:
Scarlett standing at the edge of the shore, sunset behind her, hair windswept and alive, her expression turned toward the horizon—unguarded.
Beautiful.
Luminous.
Unreachable.
Andrian exhaled slowly and tucked the phone away.
"Until next time, Scarlett," he whispered to the empty dock.
The night took the words and held them.
Like a secret.
Like a vow.