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I ushered him inside and grabbed him a cold beer from the fridge, which he downed almost instantly. As he gulped it gratefully, he filled me in on what had happened at the lighthouse. An electrician had been working on the wiring which shorted out and sparked the fire. By some miracle, the man had gotten away with only minor burns and smoke inhalation. They had mercifully been safely behind a steel reflector panel when one of the enormous bulbs had exploded.
As Dylan recounted the details, I could see the weight of the day settling on him as the adrenaline wore off. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion beneath the forced cheerfulness as he talked. I wished more than anything that I could absorb the trauma of what he had endured. No one should have to repeatedly face such danger.
Before long, Dylan was swaying on his feet, utterly drained. I immediately took him by the arm and led him next door to his place. As soon as we got inside, he collapsed onto the couch. I wanted to get some food into him, so I quickly whipped up some eggs and toast. But by the time I returned to the living room, he was already passed out cold.
I took a moment just to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept. The image of him emerging from that burning lighthouse replayed in my mind, now interwoven with thispeaceful view of him resting safely in his own home. He looked so vulnerable, yet strong at the same time. My heart ached for everything he carried.
Careful not to disturb him, I draped a blanket over his sleeping form. I couldn’t resist brushing an errant lock of hair back from his forehead. Even exhausted, he was so handsome. Feelings I couldn’t quite name rose in me as I gazed down at him. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to keep him safe.
With a resigned sigh, I kissed him lightly on the forehead and crept back out of the house, leaving the meal under a plate in case he awoke hungry later. My appetite was gone as I returned home, my mind swirling with thoughts of Dylan and the day’s events.
I drifted out to my studio, seeking solace among the familiar canvases, though I knew to focus would elude me. I found myself staring out the window across his house, replaying those agonizing moments at the lighthouse. I remembered how I had clung to him after, so overwhelmingly grateful he was alright.
The pretense of our fake engagement had faded away, overshadowed by stark relief and the raw realization of how deeply I cared about him. It both thrilled and terrified me.
I remembered those early days when he was just the handsome neighbor I casually admired from afar. Our pretend relationship was never meant to become entangled with genuine feelings. I knew I should keep my distance, but I couldn’t leave his side earlier today. And now I longed to be back there, watching over him as he rested.
With a frustrated huff, I turned my back on the window and tried to redirect my attention to mixing paints. But my mind resisted focus, continuing to wander. Had nearly losing him made me see what was growing between us? Or was I still clinging to the illusion we had constructed?
The truth was, it didn’t feel like pretend anymore when we were together. The way we could talk so effortlessly for hours, the spark that flew when we touched, even accidentally...it had started to feel real somewhere along the way. I had gotten so caught up in the fantasy that I hadn’t noticed it becoming my actual desire.
I thought of the feeling of his arms around me earlier, comforting in their strength. The sensation of his breath warmed against my neck as he had held me close. It had felt like home. Like somewhere I could stay forever.
With a start, I realized my traitorous hands had begun sketching an image of Dylan on the canvas before me. I quickly grabbed a rag to wipe away the lines, as though erasing them could erase these unwelcome revelations about my feelings. This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t supposed to fall for my fake fiancé. That only happened in movies or cheesy beach reads.
Frustrated by my lack of control over my emotions, I abandoned the pointless painting effort. The sun was going down anyway, casting the studio in shadows. As I turned on lights throughout the house, I glanced periodically out the window toward Dylan’s place. Part of me hoped to see a light turn on, indicating he was awake. But the house remained dark and still.
Chapter 11
I carefully attached price tags to the wooden frames of my paintings, lining them up neatly along the studio wall, ready for the art festival. My hands trembled slightly as I handled the artwork, remnants of yesterday’s terror still coursing through my veins.
Dylan might have died in that lighthouse fire.
Even now, hours later, my heart raced as I recalled the raging flames, billowing smoke, and Dylan’s soot-covered face emerging from the chaos. I had come so close to losing him, this man who had entered my life through happenstance and grown to mean so much more.
As an artist, I was used to channeling my emotions onto the canvas. But this - this bone-deep fear - eluded my paintbrush. I could only grip my surroundings tighter, as if to convince myself of their solidity, of Dylan’s enduring presence.
The morning light filtered into my studio, belying the darkness of my thoughts. I took a shaky breath, wiping a smudge from the corner of a seascape. Focus, I told myself. You have work to do.
I would see Dylan soon, undoubtedly. I pictured our next encounter: me, nonchalant and breezy, him, playfully cocky as always. We would share a joke or two, gloss over the lingering trauma of the fire, and all would be well again.
My throat constricted at the very thought. Even now, I ached to see him, hear his voice, touch his solid form, and know he was here. That he was safe.
But I couldn’t let him see how deeply this had affected me. How sharply this false romance had swerved into tender, terrifying territory.
So, I would sip my coffee casually when we met again. I would don my artist’s cap and speak of mundane things like the weather or my paintings. I would not fuss over him, or beg him to be more careful, or pull him into a desperate embrace.
I would pretend I had not stayed up all night, worrying and wondering if each moment could have been our last. That my feelings for him had not crossed the line from a friendly farce to breathless affection.
The lie would be my shield, protecting us both from truths too fragile to hold. And when he was gone, I would let the façade fall, feeling the full weight of how much I had come to need him.
For now, I could only steady my hands and prepare my art, using work to quiet my restless heart. Tomorrow would bring a new day, a new dance of pretended indifference.
But I knew my care for him would persist in the darkest depths of the night, as sure and constant as the tide. A secret truth is more real than any we have fabricated.
I looked up as a knock sounded at my studio door. My heart leaped when I saw Dylan’s familiar form silhouetted in the morning sunlight.
“Morning, Aves,” he said, stifling a yawn as he entered. “I just wanted to say thanks for looking after me last night. You didn’t have to do that.”
