Page 5 of Heatstroke (Private Encounters #15)

FIVE

EMOTIONAL UNDERCURRENT

The morning air was cool against Daniel's bare arms, the sky a bruise of violet and gold, the kind of dawn that felt like a secret.

He didn't look back. Couldn't. If he turned, if he saw Thierry's face again—sleep-soft, unguarded—he might do something unforgivable. Like stay.

He dressed quickly on the porch, fingers fumbling with buttons, the fabric of his shirt still damp from last night's sweat, last night's rain.

The wood beneath his feet was rough, weathered by years of salt and storm, and he stepped carefully, avoiding the warped planks that groaned under pressure. Silence was his only ally now.

Inside, the shack was still dark, the hammock swaying gently, Thierry's breathing deep and even. Daniel hesitated, hand on the doorframe. One glance. That was all. Just one.

Mistake.

Thierry lay tangled in the netting, one arm thrown above his head, the other curled against his chest like he'd reached for Daniel in his sleep and found only absence. His lips were parted, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and for a heartbeat, Daniel couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

The sight of him like this—undone, unarmed—was worse than any argument, any fight they could have had.

He shut the door before he could think better of it.

The next forty-eight hours passed in a blur of evasion and bad decisions.

Daniel turned his phone off first. Then, when that felt too much like cowardice, he turned it back on—only to ignore the steady stream of messages lighting up the screen.

Where'd you go?

Talk to me.

Daniel.

Please.

He didn’t care where Thierry had gotten his number—probably from the receptionist at The Breakline. It didn’t matter, because he left them unanswered.

Instead, he walked. The island's eastern trails were steep, overgrown, the kind of paths tourists avoided. It was perfect. He climbed until his lungs burned, until the sweat on his back had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with exertion.

But even here, even now, Thierry haunted him. The scent of crushed ferns underfoot reminded him of the scent Thierry used. The rustle of palm fronds sounded like his laughter.

At sunset, he sat on a jagged outcrop overlooking the sea and tried to write in his journal. The pages were water-warped, the ink smudged from last week's rain, but he scrawled anyway—half-formed thoughts, fragments of dreams, anything to quiet the noise in his head.

I don't know why I left.

Lie.

I don't know why it matters.

Lie.

He snapped the journal shut.

The next morning, he went into town.

The market was crowded, the air thick with the smell of fried plantains and diesel fumes from the fishing boats idling at the dock. He bought coffee he didn't want and drank it standing up, his back against a sun-bleached wall, watching the tide of tourists ebb and flow around him.

Then he heard it. A laugh. Bright, unburdened.

His head jerked up.

A woman stood a few feet away, her hair a sun-bleached blonde, her sundress fluttering in the breeze. She was grinning at something her companion said. Her face was open, easy. Alive. And she looked like Jolene.

The coffee turned to ash in Daniel's mouth.

Her vitals were stable when I left.

The memory hit without warning—sharp, surgical. A hospital room. The beep of a monitor. The way the light had caught the woman's hair, just like this, before the code blue alarm shattered the illusion.

She was fine. She was supposed to be fine.

His hand tightened around the cup. The cardboard crumpled, hot liquid seeping through the cracks, but he barely felt it.

He'd promised Jolene she'd be fine, and she'd died.

"Shit."

He dropped the ruined cup into a bin and walked away, his pulse a drumbeat in his throat.

Back at the guesthouse, Daniel stood under the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing at his skin like he could wash away the past. It didn't work. Nothing ever did.

His phone buzzed from the counter. Again.

He knew without looking who it was.

Thierry wouldn't give up. That was the problem. Daniel had spent years building walls thick enough to keep everyone out, but Thierry?—

Thierry climbed them like they weren't even there.

He picked up the phone.

Thierry: You can run all you want. I'll still be here when you're done.

Daniel exhaled, slow and ragged.

Then he typed a single word.

Daniel : Why?

The reply came instantly.

Thierry : Because you're worth the wait.

Daniel shut his eyes.

Damn him.

Damn him for knowing exactly what to say.

Thierry showed up just after sunset, when the cicadas were loud enough to drown out thought and the sky had gone that gauzy, pinkish gray that made everything look slightly unreal.

Daniel heard the knock before he saw the shape behind the screen door—a silhouette that was all tension and broad shoulders, one hand braced against the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking it down.

"You weren’t answering my texts before," Thierry said when Daniel opened the door.

"I got them," Daniel replied, flat, almost bored, though his heart was hammering like a warning bell in his chest.

Thierry stepped inside without invitation."You don't get to use me and vanish."

"It was just sex," Daniel said, and hated how thin it sounded the second it left his mouth.

Thierry stilled. His mouth set into a hard line, but the real betrayal was in his eyes—those sharp, intelligent eyes that had once looked at Daniel like he was something worth discovering. Now they searched him like a crime scene.

"Don't do that," Thierry said, quiet now, which was worse than yelling. "Don't pretend like it didn't matter."

Daniel folded his arms, a useless shield. "You're reading too much into it. People have sex. It happens."

"You think I'm angry because we had sex?" Thierry stepped closer, heat coming off him in waves. "I'm angry because you ran. Like a coward. Like none of it touched you."

"It didn't," Daniel lied.

Thierry laughed once, but it was sharp and mirthless. "Liar."

Daniel opened his mouth—what for, he didn't even know—but Thierry was already halfway out the door.

"Lie to yourself all you want," he said, pausing on the threshold. "But don't lie to me."

And then he was gone.

The room felt bigger when Thierry wasn't in it. Emptier. Daniel moved through it in a daze, each step heavier than the last. The air was too still, the shadows too long.

He poured a drink he knew he wouldn’t touch and stood by the open window, staring out at the ocean. From here, it looked like another country entirely—distant, unreachable.

He didn't remember throwing the glass. Just the shatter. Crystal against wall. It exploded like a gunshot, shards skittering across the tile.

Then he was on his knees.

The sob caught him off guard—raw, animal. He hadn't cried since the night Jolene died. Not at the funeral. Not during the investigation. Not even after her husband asked him, voice barely holding together, if there was anything else he could've done.

Daniel had said no, but the guilt had never left. It had only waited. Waited until now, until this—until Thierry.

He didn't try to stop the tears. He let them come, shoulders shaking, breath stuttering. He let it wreck him.

When the worst of it passed, he reached for his phone with trembling fingers.

Daniel: I'm sorry.

He stared at the screen until his eyes blurred again.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned off the light.