Page 123 of Eternal

DAMIR

“Paradise” by Coldplay

Present

T here’s something unique in the way a person feels next to you. That need to make them smile, make them happy with small things you know will make them feel seen and cared for.

I believe you. I believe you. I believe you.

Azra’s playing with her hair, eyes closed, breathing slow. She looks calm. Relaxed. I love the way she looks right now. Soft. Vulnerable. Like no one in the world would believe what she’s capable of.

And I want her to be like that every day. Not just when she’s having a small break. I want her to feel safe. Happy with me.

There’s a drive in front of us right now. Waiting in line at some burrito spot on the edge of the city. Neon signs, the smell of food is floating through the window.

I take her order like I always do. No need to ask. I’ve known it since the first time I watched her pretend she wasn’t hungry.

“I hope it’s as good as that place we hit in Vegas,” I say, turning a little toward her. “You remember that one?”

She folds her hands together, eyes still closed. “Please. I’m starving. If this is mid I’m gonna throw myself under a car.”

I huff a laugh. “You’re beautiful, by the way.”

That gets her to look at me. She grins. “Good eyes.”

“You’re an actual narcissist.”

She shrugs, still smiling. “You killed someone for me tonight. Let me be.”

I glance over at her again. Really look at her. Her lips are a little swollen, eyeliner smudged, and she still looks like something holy. Something I’d bleed for. Something I already have.

I reach over and let my hand rest on her neck, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “I know,” I say, quietly. “I’m a bad, bad person.”

She watches me, eyes soft but not innocent.

“You should kiss me,” I add, voice low. “As punishment.”

She laughs under her breath. “I don’t think that’s how punishment works.”

I don’t care. I kiss her anyway and she kisses me back like she’s been waiting to. Like I’m not a monster. Like maybe we’re the same kind.

Then, the speaker cracks. “Uh… hey. Your order’s ready.”

We break apart, laughing into each other, forehead to forehead.“Thank you,” I call out, not even trying to hide the amusement in my voice.

Azra leans past me, still laughing. “Yeah, sorry. Thank you so much.”

I take the bag. The smell hits immediately, warm, spicy, hers. I throw it into the backseat and shift into drive.

We pull out of the lot and head toward the edge of the city.

The roads get quieter, the sky darker. I reach over and take her hand without looking, she laces her fingers through mine like it’s muscle memory.

We’re going back to the beach.

By the time we pull up near the beach, she’s already kicking off her shoes when I park, then she unbuttoned her pants.

I blink. “What… what are you doing?”

She laughs like I’m an idiot. “The pants are too long.”

I stare. “Okay?”

“And we’re at the beach!” she says, wiggling out of them like this is the most obvious thing in the world. She’s got this long shirt on that falls low enough to cover her, barely, and she’s grinning when she’s already halfway into the sand.

I shake my head, but I’m smiling too. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I don’t want my pants to be all dirty.”

The night air is colder than I thought it’d be. She shivers once and doesn’t say anything, but I notice. I always notice. I slip off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders.

She pauses for a second, long enough to look at me with that face, not surprised, pure softness.

“Thanks,” she says, quieter now.

“I’ve got a blanket in the back.” I grab it and toss it over one arm as we head toward the sand, her barefoot, me still fully dressed like a responsible idiot.

I lay the blanket down in a spot far enough from the tide, still within view of the stars.

She plops down with a dramatic sigh like she’s waited all her life for this exact moment, and starts digging through the bag while I sit down next to her, knees pulled up, body angled toward her more than the waves.

I can’t help it, I’m watching her like she’s the whole scenery.

“How is it?” I ask.

She doesn’t look up right away, she holds the burrito to her chest like a treasure and smiles.

“It smells so goooood ,” she says, dragging the word out, eyes wide with exaggerated bliss.

Then she looks at me, cheeks puffed from laughing again.

“This might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. ”

I raise a brow. “You’re happy?”

“Hmm I am,” she says, mouth full now.

And I watch her eat, with hot sauce on her lips and bare legs tucked under my jacket, and I think to myself that maybe this is what heaven must look like.

Pretty eyes. Dirty laughter. A beach at midnight. And her, alive and eating her food happily. Mine.

We’ve been sitting on the blanket long enough that the chill's starting to sink in, but she hasn’t moved. She's still eating, eyes on the waves, legs tucked under my jacket. Moonlight’s catching in her hair.

“I just realized,” I say, voice low, breaking the silence. “It’s been almost a year since we’ve met, and I still don’t know when your birthday is.”

She pauses, not looking at me yet. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I do.” I tilt my head toward her. “Tell me.”

“It’s in a month. July fourth.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

She finally glances over. “Yeah. Why?”

I shake my head, trying to do the math. “So… we met just after.”

She shrugs, eyes back on the water. “Guess so. I wasn't in Vegas for it, though. Not last year.”

“You weren't with Vik and Kat?”

“No,” she says, voice lighter now, but distant. “I had a job."

I nod slowly. “And no one did anything?”

“Vik and Kat called me and they sent an iris bouquet at the hotel I was staying in ,” she says, like it’s enough. And I guess it does. For her.

I don’t push, but something in me clenches. The idea of her somewhere far from here, alone, eating some food on her birthday. She should’ve had cake and bad singing and instead probably spent it cleaning blood off her sleeves.

She shifts slightly, turns toward me. “And you?” she asks.

I look at her for a beat. “May 31st.”

Her brows knit. “It was two weeks ago! You didn’t say anything.”

I give a little shrug. “Didn’t matter.”

Her face goes cold. “It does to me.”

Does it to her?

“I don’t even know if that’s really my birthday. I was a newborn. I don’t remember anything. All I know is, my mom dropped me at the orphanage with a note that said ‘Damir.’ That’s all they had. So that day simply became my birthday.”

“Still counts. It’s yours.”

I don’t answer right away. I’m looking at her mouth, her eyes, her hands wrapped around the burrito like it’s keeping her anchored to something real.

She sets it down suddenly, brushes her palms on her thighs, then stands up in the sand like she’s made a decision.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching her.

She clears her throat, stands there in the dark with her hair all over the place and my jacket drowning her, then she starts singing. “Happy birthday to youuuu…” It’s off-key, way too loud, and she’s grinning like an idiot.

“ Azra… ”

“Happy birthday to youuu!”

I’m laughing now, can’t help it. She keeps going, spinning in a slow circle like she’s on some imaginary stage.

“Happy birthday, partner! Happy birthday to you…”

I cut her off with a loud, amused “Nope.”

She laughs, stumbling as she drops back onto the blanket beside me, warm and ridiculous and perfect.

“Happpyyy birthday to youuuuuuu, Damir.” A beautiful smile. “There,” she adds breathlessly. “Now you’ve had one.”

I look at her, breathless from laughing, completely lost in how beautiful she looks with the beach behind her. “That was terrible.” That was perfect.

“Birthdays suck anyway.”

She grabs her burrito again like nothing happened, like she didn’t crack open a part of my chest I didn’t know was still soft.

I lean in a little, close enough for her to feel how obsessed I am with her soul. “We’re doing something for yours.”

“You’re gonna forget.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

I shake my head. “Yours is different. ”

She doesn’t say anything at first, she simply stares ahead, the waves crashing in the distance.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes, “Okay.” She leans back beside me, half-wrapped in my jacket, the foil of her burrito rustling faintly as she shifts.

Her head’s tilted toward the stars, hair moving in the wind, face half in shadow. Curls soft, eyes soft, gaze empty.

I can't stop looking at her.

There’s this feeling in my chest, like I want to reach inside myself and hand her whatever’s left.

Here. It’s not much, it’s ugly and probably not safe, but it’s yours.

She doesn’t know how soft she makes me, or maybe she does. Maybe she’s only pretending not to know, because that makes it easier to ignore.

Her birthday’s next month.

And I’m already thinking of ways to make it matter, ways to make her feel like someone cares, even if it’s me, even if I’m the last person who should.

We finish the burrito, the foil tossed aside on the blanket. The ocean hums behind us, steady and endless. She’s lying next to me, close but quiet, eyes fixed on the stars like they’re talking to her.

I break the silence. “How do you call them? The stars. You said you and your mom used to name them.”

She shrugs, eyes still on the sky. “Yeah it was a little game. I loved drawing them and putting the names just under.”

I watch her for a second, the way she goes quiet like that, like she’s ashamed. “Why?”

She turns her head, finally looking at me, her voice is flat when she talks. “Because they told me I didn’t deserve to see the real ones. So I drew my own. When I was a kid, I mean.”

It knocks the breath out of me, even though I should’ve seen it coming.

I’d seen the drawings in her room before, stars on the ceiling, tiny names in ink underneath. I never asked, never understood.

“You still do it,” I say, quieter now.

She nods. “Yeah. I don’t know. I think it’s just me and little me still... holding on to something. Like we’re doing it together now.”