Page 13 of Rescuing Aria

His words carry weight beyond their literal meaning. My gaze shifts to his profile, strong and defined against the darkening sky.

“Did you come here with them?”

The question slips out before I can stop it. My voice barely carries above the crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

Jon’s hand stills in the water. Tension hums off him—not angry, just tightly wound. Then he nods, eyes still fixed on the tidepool.

“Yeah. Many times.”

Silence stretches between us, delicate and alive. A sea anemone ripples beneath the surface, curling in on itself, then slowly opening again, vulnerable but unafraid.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Don’t be.” He turns to me then, crouched low but suddenly towering in presence, gaze steady and unflinching. “Charlie and Brett were a big part of my life. They always will be. They’re family. But I’m not romantically involved with them anymore. That chapter’s closed.”

My heart knocks hard in my chest.

“What I want now…” His voice drops, rough-edged and reverent. “Is to explore what this could be. With you. Just you.”

I reach for him before I can second-guess it, fingers sliding over his, our palms brushing. His hand tightens around mine, grounding me.

“I want to build something with you. If you’re in.” Then he lifts our joined hands and gently drags his knuckles across my cheek, slow and warm.

I nod, too full to speak. But my fingers curl tighter around his, and he knows.

The sun dips lower, painting the water in deepening shades of gold and crimson. Jon rises, extending his hand. His touch lingers as he helps me up, thumb tracing small circles on my palm. “Come on. Let’s eat before everything gets cold.”

Back at our picnic spot, Jon uncorks a bottle of white wine, pouring it into proper glasses before handing one to me. His fingers brush mine, lingering longer than necessary.

“To new beginnings.” He raises his glass, eyes never leaving mine.

I clink mine against his. “New beginnings.”

The wine’s flavor explodes across my tongue—crisp apple notes with hints of plum and something mineral, like the ocean itself distilled into liquid. We eat as the last light fades from the sky, stars appearing one by one like shy performers taking the stage.

The food disappears, replaced by comfortable silence. Jon packs away the remnants while I wrap a blanket around myshoulders against the growing chill. When he’s done, he pulls something from beneath a nearby pile of driftwood—more pieces he must have stashed here earlier, knowing exactly what this evening would need.

“Fire?” Jon gestures toward a small depression among the stones lined with blackened marks from previous flames.

“Yes, please.” I watch him arrange the driftwood, the practiced movements revealing a lifetime of outdoor skills I’m only beginning to discover.

The fire catches quickly, flames licking upward, casting his face in warm light and dancing shadows that emphasize the sharp lines of his jaw. His presence fills the space around us—not just physically, but something deeper, an energy that draws me toward him like gravity.

“You’ve done this before.” The observation slips out, my eyes tracing the confident movements of his hands.

“Spent half my childhood outdoors.” Jon settles beside me, close enough that our thighs touch through layers of clothing. “My dad believed camping built character.”

“Did it?”

“Maybe.” His smile flashes in the firelight, a quick glimpse of white teeth against tanned skin. “Or maybe it just gave me a useful skill set for when I need to impress pretty women on beach dates.”

The casual compliment heats my cheeks more than the fire. Jon’s arm slips around my shoulders, and I lean into him, our bodies fitting together with surprising ease. His scent envelops me—clean sweat, salt air, and that underlying note that’s purely Jon.

“I’ve been having the nightmares again.” The confession emerges quietly as I stare into the flames. “About the van. The needle. Waking up in that warehouse.”

“How bad?” Jon’s arm tightens, his body tensing slightly before relaxing with deliberate control.

“Three nights this week.” I trace patterns in the sand beside the blanket, focusing on the small movements of my finger rather than the memories. “Not as intense as before, but—they’re still there.”