I dream of moonlit waves rocking me, the scent of salt, the lullaby of surf. I’m carried by the currents, insubstantial as sea foam. Nothing to weigh me down. Nothing… but the small, empty place inside me. As if by acknowledgment it gains power, the emptiness yawns and rises from the deep. A maw of blackness swallows me whole—I’m falling, drowning.

“Hush, love, I’ve got you.”

Heat and soft skin, taut muscles against my cold curves. I blink rapidly in the almost-dark and Alex’s face comes into focus. It’s very close to mine, our noses almost touching. Ocean sunrise. My head rests on a colorful bicep. His free hand smooths hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

“You had a nightmare.”

“What time is it?” I ask hoarsely.

“Witching hour,” he says, smiling slightly.

I shift in his arms, feeling soreness and fullness. “Did you sleep?”

“No.”

I read his face, his eyes, and feel again the sensation of falling. Not the fast, helpless plummet, but that of a wave’s inexorable undertow. He watched me sleep.

A tug on my earlobe brings me blinking to the present. “What was the dream about?”

“Nothing.” His eyes narrow; I sigh. “The ocean. I was floating, then I was sucked down. I’m sure it was just a stress response to… everything. That, or my subconscious was punishing me for not running on the beach today.”

He hums and shifts forward, nuzzling my nose, then ducks to cover my mouth with his. The kiss is soft, achingly sweet. I wind my arms around his neck and stretch languorously. Circuits fire, bringing my senses online. Rooting me to my body.

“You’re like gravity,” I whisper.

His lips curve. “You’re like a balloon whose string I keep running after.”

I laugh, leaning back to see his face. “A balloon?”

“Lots of helium,” he confirms, eyes sparkling.

I tremble with suppressed laughter. “Oh, really? Then you’d better tie me down.” As the words resonate in my ears, I freeze. “I mean—”

He chuckles. “Oh, Thea,” he murmurs, shaking his head. His next kiss is deeper, his tongue sliding against mine, grazing the roof of my mouth. It’s different, more intimate than any before.

Desire flares, riding the peaks of smoothly swirling tides.

My leg is guided over his hip and fingers trail beneath my thigh. His breath hitches as he discovers me ready for him. “Are you surprised?” I whisper dryly.

He doesn’t smile. “By you? Always.”

A small adjustment of our bodies and he presses against my entrance. Slowly, with measured rolls of his hips, he works himself inside me as far as the angle allows. Then he stills.

My eyes, closed to magnify the sensation, blink open.

Alex is watching me, expression soft. No darkness. No humor or even urgency, despite the quivering tension in his arms. He swallows hard and drops his forehead to mine. “What you gave me tonight—I don’t have the words. Just… thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Hughes.”

His cheek grazes mine, tickling me with bristles. Goosebumps erupt on my skin. “You have me utterly bewitched, Ms. Sands.”

My heart floods, spilling into that small, empty space.

I tilt my hips to bring him deeper. He groans, his own hips rolling, seemingly without his permission. I pull him closer, hold him tighter, as he slowly withdraws and thrusts. Gently swirling tides.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, and pulls me atop him, sitting up in the same movement. The position drives him to the limits of my body and I flush hotly. His calves cradle my bottom and his arms encircle my torso. He’s everywhere, within and without.

Together, we move, mimicking the waves. Slow and steady. When I falter, he guides me. I hold his face in my hands and don’t look away. Not for one moment. I can’t speak the words—not yet—but I don’t need language. With my eyes, my touch, and the rhythm of my body attuned to his, I tell him what’s in my heart.

I love you. I’m yours. Don’t leave. Stay.

“I want all of you,” he whispers. “Everything. I need everything. Please.”

I smile, gliding my thumbs over his furrowed brow and outward until my fingers sink into his hair. “You have it. Everything.”

His eyes darken and narrow, lips parting. I kiss him, hold him as the rip current takes me, as my body jerks, clenching around him. No falling, just expansion. Seafoam spreading across the waves.

“Let go, Alex,” I whisper.

He surrenders.

* * *

Happiness is a strange element, one capable of affecting time. Sunday with Alex stretches weeks, but also passes in the space of minutes. The overcast skies add to the sense of elastic time, as do our interspersed naps.

A side of Alex previously only glimpsed is revealed in full. Playful and relaxed. Exceedingly tender. Still controlling, though, which manifests in a preoccupation with my needs. He feeds me, brushes my hair. Rubs my back. When he carries me into the shower, I finally speak up and tell him he’s being ridiculous.

He sets me on my feet beneath the water. Softly, he asks, “When was the last time someone took care of you?”

I stop complaining.

When the skies begin to darken, so does my mood. It’s not a conscious choice; in fact, I’m frustrated with myself. Why do I resist perfection? But the approaching night feels like endings. I can't help but consider the future. Hemlock will open, and Alex will… The narrative skips. A broken record singing What if, what if.

As I dress to go home, he’s unusually quiet. Already clothed, he sits in a chair beside a large window, gazing at the gloomy skyline. He is the billionaire tycoon, cool and calculated, jaw twitching as he chews thoughts.

I don’t attempt to match his armor with my own. What is armor? My body still hums from our last lovemaking. He was urgent and possessive, all gentleness gone. If not for the need and vulnerability I’d seen in his eyes, I might be more worried by his current demeanor.

Still, his reticence rings low bells of warning. I’m emotionally fertile, ripe for pain. He could crush me now and I wouldn’t utter a sound.

I want all of you. Everything.

Holding his words in my heart, I walk to the chair. “Penny for your thoughts,” I say, with more levity than I feel.

He blinks and looks up, smiling faintly. “Candace throws a charity auction each year for my mother’s cancer foundation. It’s this coming Saturday, at the house I took you to in L.A. She’s invited you.”

The hamster wheel activates with a screech of rust. All I can manage is, “Why?”

Alex’s eyes are shadowed, unreadable, and unease ripples through me. He shrugs a shoulder, turning his gaze back to the sky. “She likes you,” he says wryly. “I think she enjoyed watching you put me in my place.”

“Alex,” I say carefully, “do you want me to go?”

He reaches for my free hand and brings it to his lips. But there’s something off, almost rote, in the gesture. “Of course,” he says.

Lie! screams my mind. But my heart chimes, Trust him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask softly. “Is it because the event honors your mother?” He doesn’t even blink; I’m speaking to a wall. Now I begin to worry. “Alex?”

He gives himself a little shake. When he looks at me again, his eyes are almost his own. “Sorry, lost in thoughts.” He squeezes my fingers. “There’s something I have to ask you, and I’m reluctant to do so. I don’t want you to be angry.”

Whir goes the hamster wheel. “What is it?”

He looks anywhere but my face. “You… well, it would be best if you covered your back.”

Relief nearly topples me. “Of course, Alex. Jesus. You scared me.”

“Really?” he asks, eyes awakening, focusing on me finally. Thank God. He sighs heavily. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

My brows lift. “That I’d think the request meant you’re ashamed to be seen with me?” His immediate grimace makes me laugh. “As I think you’ve figured out, I didn’t get my tattoo to show it off in public. Or did you forget my two faces?”

He stands and wraps arms around me. “Thank you for being you, Ms. Sands.”

I snort, then lean back abruptly. “Speaking of my tattoo, where are you hiding the photograph? If you say it’s in an office—”

“Relax,” he says, laughing. “It’s at home. I took it when I went back to deal with Hyacinth.”

At home.

I force a smile. “Ah, the real thing negated your need for it?”

“Something like that,” he says cheekily.

I shove him lightly. “Walk me out.”

We stroll hand in hand to the front door, where I release him to put on my shoes. “I’m assuming Saturday is black tie?” I ask, slinging my purse over my shoulder.

Alex grins. “How’s that lemon taste?”

I stick out my tongue. “If you abandon me to the wolves, I’ll have to hurt you.”

“The wolves will fall at your feet, Thea.”

I shudder, thinking of slimy old men and their preoccupation with younger women. “Thankfully, I might finally be too old for them to notice.”

His nose scrunches in distaste. “Not a charming thought.”

“Tell me about it,” I retort, then open the door and step into the hallway. There’s less pain in goodbyes, I’ve found, when they’re fast. Like pulling off a band-aid.

“No kiss?” he growls.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, returning dutifully to kiss him, though my intentions of a quick peck are derailed. When he’s done ravishing my mouth, he slaps me hard on the ass. “What was that for!”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes electric with mirth. “‘Oh, sorry?’” he repeats mockingly. “Like you forgot to tip the delivery man?”

I flush and wince. “I’m not, uh, well practiced in these things.”

“Things?” he echoes, and clutches his chest with dramatic flair. “‘Farewell, fair cruelty.’”

I can’t immediately place the line. “Shakespeare?” I guess.

He winks. “Twelfth Night.”

I laugh, wanting more than anything into run into his arms. To yell and weep and tell him that no two people have ever been more perfect for one another. I am made for you.

But say nothing. Instead, I smile and turn away, and the darkness (at bay these last minutes) creeps forward again.

Twenty days.

* * *

I haven’t been here before. I don’t know what to do. When I reach the empty condo, I head straight to my bedroom and begin rummaging through the contents of my bookcase. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I need it urgently. Thea’s Guide to Letting Go of the Past, maybe, or How to Stop Thinking so Goddamn Much.

I’m aware of the futility of searching externally for answers that can only be found within. I also know that accumulation of facts does not equate wisdom. Still, I search.

When I give myself a papercut, I take it as a sign and shove books haphazardly back onto the shelves. For the next twenty minutes, I rummage through my closet for a dress appropriate for Saturday. I already know I don’t own anything suitable, but continue to look. Because being upset over a dress is easier than confronting the barbed truth that pain is more comfortable for me than happiness.

Pain, I know. Disappointment, betrayal—these are familiar. Even during the first few, good years with Damien, I always felt a sense of impending doom. As though happiness was an accident, something I didn’t deserve. I remember Lillian’s warning, about setting Alex up for failure. Did I set Damien up for failure, too? The thought is a frightening one.

“How do I put faith in something I don’t believe in?” I ask the ceiling cinema.

Lights flash. Shadows jump and fade. I continue staring upward, waiting for a sign like a comet flashing, or a sibylline voice confirming, All is well, the angels still sing.

Instead, I remember when I stopped believing in fairy tales.

Until four years old, I did believe. Honestly and deeply. My favorite book of all was Peter Pan, a beautifully illustrated edition. I didn’t carry a stuffed animal or blanket—I carried J.M. Barrie’s fantasy classic. Central to my adolescent obsession wasn’t Wendy Darling, Tinker Bell, or even Peter himself.

It was Peter’s Shadow.

My mother took us to see a production of the play, and because she knows people, we went backstage afterward. I asked Peter (I really thought it was him) if I could meet his Shadow. The poor man had no idea how to respond and turned helplessly to my mother.

Katherine said: “Peter’s Shadow died when he started growing up.”

Tears filling my eyes, I told her: “Then I won’t grow up! I won’t let my Shadow die!”

I’ve never forgotten the look on my mother’s face in that moment, as she replied, “Look behind you, dear. It’s already happened.”

The actor playing Peter was just as horrified by her response as I was, but for different, adult reasons. (My mother was visibly drunk.) He crouched before me, took my shoulders in his hands, and tried to explain how to keep magic alive in your heart. Or something.

I was crying too hard to hear him.

When the doorbell rings sometime later, it’s so unexpected that I shriek. Heart pounding, I sit frozen on the edge of the bed until I’m half-convinced the sound was imagined.

It rings again. I don’t scream this time, but my palms start sweating. I glance at the clock to see it’s after eleven. Who is it? Where’s Lillian? Then I realize I haven’t looked at my phone all day. She’s probably with Adam. Or she’s at the door, having misplaced her key.

Narratives clash on the ceiling and follow me to the front door. But as I peer through the peephole, they fade and disappear. A wave sucked out to sea.

I jerk the door open. “Alex?”

His gaze skirts down my body; an eyebrow lifts. “What have you been doing?” he asks mildly.

I look down to see I’m still wearing my dress and heels. My visible hair is knotted and wild, a victim of my intellectual meltdown. “Uh…”

“Can I come in?” he asks, lips twitching.

I pull the door further open. “Of course.”

He walks past me, across the foyer, and down the hall to my bedroom. Bemused, I lock the door and follow. On the threshold of the bedroom, I stop, arrested by the sight of him pulling off his sweatshirt and jeans. For once, he’s wearing boxers. Bare-chested and yawning, he crawls under the sheets and relaxes with a sigh.

“Some light reading?” he asks dryly, tilting his head toward the bookshelf. I follow his gaze to see that my method of replacing books was rather… chaotic. He chuckles at my miffed expression. “Put on pajamas and come cuddle me, Thea.”

I blink, tingling and uncertain. “Alex?”

He scowls. “Ten more seconds and my feelings are going to be hurt.”

I jerk into motion, pulling off my dress and replacing it with underwear and a shirt. As I move under the covers, Alex clicks off the bedside light. Shadows leap, alive. His arms come around me, solid and warm. A knot inside me loosens.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, placing a soft kiss on my lips. He hums happily and pulls me closer. “You’re the perfect stuffed animal, soft and warm. You smell good. Like flowers.”

I smile, ducking my face into his neck.

I’m asleep in minutes.