Page 25 of September’s Tide (Island Tales #2)

Chapter Eighteen

David sat on the sofa where he’d woken up just after sunrise, the slim book of Taylor’s poetry still resting on his chest, as though it had claimed him in the night. The laptop blinked patiently on the coffee table, the cursor pulsing in a half-written sentence.

Taylor’s poetry… God.

He hadn’t seen it coming. The depth of feeling, the aching vulnerability threaded between those verses… It had stunned him. Taylor had always been expressive in little ways: a glance, a smirk, a sigh when he thought no one was listening. But this?

This was a soul stripped bare.

David picked up the collection again, its unassuming spiral spine at odds with the weight it carried. He flipped carefully through the pages until he found the one that had gutted him. Even now, the sting of it hadn’t dulled. He read it again.

I see you, her hand clasped in yours.

Your gaze stutters away from my direction.

What is it you fear?

That if our eyes should meet, she would see the truth, the real you?

See you as you were last night, in all your naked glory,

Your hands restlessly caressing me,

Your lips against mine,

Soft at first, then devouring me with an intense hunger.

The curve of your form as you entered me,

So deep that you were all I knew, all I felt…

All I wanted.

She has you now.

Her hand tightens around yours possessively.

But last night?

Last night you were mine.

The ache bloomed in David’s chest again, sharp and immediate. It wasn’t just the sensuality—it was the grief. The poem was a scar, barely healed, a cry for connection that had been met with silence. For Taylor to write this… to live this, and then carry on as if it hadn’t broken him?

David swallowed hard.

He could picture it so clearly now: Taylor, maybe younger, curled in bed with a pen and this hollow pain he didn’t know where to put. Writing it all down because it was the only way to stay whole. Not rage, not self-pity, but truth , quiet and staggering.

No wonder he hadn’t shared it. These weren’t words you casually handed over to someone.

These had weight.

And suddenly, David saw him differently, not just the quick wit, the easy confidence, the sun-drenched skin, but the quiet corners, the hidden bruises, the desperate hope that someone, someday, might stay.

Valerie had been right. The poems had changed everything. They’d opened a door David hadn’t even known was there. And behind it was someone far more complex—and far more real —than he’d been prepared for.

He’d read the book from cover to cover, again and again, until exhaustion had finally won out and he’d drifted off on the sofa, still holding it like something precious.

With morning came the voices.

Not real voices, of course, but the characters that always came when a story clawed its way up from his chest and refused to be ignored. They’d started speaking to him before he was even fully awake, half-whispers from the corners of his mind.

David knew better than to silence them.

He reached forward, his fingertips brushing the warm keys of the laptop, and resumed what he’d begun an hour ago: writing.

Because something had shifted.

Because the boy in that poem deserved to be seen.

And because David was starting to wonder if maybe he was already in too deep.

David’s fingers flew across the keyboard, barely keeping up with the rush of words hurtling through him.

The keys clacked in a frantic rhythm, filling the quiet of the Lighthouse like a kind of music.

There was no outline, no plan, nothing but the pulsing thrum of knowing exactly what needed to be said next.

Scene after scene, sentence after sentence poured out of him, raw and electric.

He grinned, actually grinned, as another paragraph formed like magic beneath his hands.

God, I’ve missed this .

He’d missed the thrill of being caught in the current, dragged under by characters who refused to wait their turn. His coffee had long since gone cold, untouched beside him. The little book of poetry remained open-faced on the arm of the couch, like a talisman.

Every so often, he sat back, his chest rising and falling fast, as though he’d just run a sprint. Then he’d lurch forward again, caught up in another wave.

It was happening. The words were back.

And it wasn’t just the act of writing—it was the way it made him feel.

Sharp. Alive. As though something vital had uncoiled inside him and decided to dance.

He wasn’t dragging sentences out of the mud anymore.

He wasn’t staring at blank pages that taunted him.

This— this —was flow. This was what had hooked him in the first place, years ago, before deadlines and critics and the fear of saying nothing new.

He hadn’t even noticed when the sun had climbed fully above the horizon, casting pale gold over the living room floor. Light spilled across his laptop, his hands, the rumpled cushion he’d slept on.

None of it mattered. Only the words, the rush.

David laughed quietly as he hammered out a stretch of dialogue, chasing it before it slipped away. His cheeks were warm, his shoulders ached, and he couldn’t stop.

He didn’t want to.

For the first time in too long, he felt like himself again. Whole. Wild. Writing .

And God, it felt so damn good .

The soft knock on the bifold window broke David’s focus like a twig snapping underfoot.

He jerked his head up, and there was Taylor, silhouetted in the morning light, hoodie up, black shorts showing off legs that should’ve been outlawed.

The hoodie meant the breeze had teeth. David blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden plunge into reality.

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, sliding the window open, his pulse still racing, now from more than just the writing.

“You,” he said in a breathless voice. “Perfect timing. I need a favour.”

Taylor arched his eyebrow. “Well, good morning to you, too.” His voice was dry, but the faint upturn at the corners of his mouth gave him away.

David winced. “Shit, sorry. That was abrupt.” He gave Taylor an apologetic smile. “Let’s start again. Good morning.”

“That’s more like it.” Taylor stepped inside and pushed back his hood. “What’s this mysterious favour, then?”

David pointed to the laptop, still glowing with the promise of new words. “I woke up stupidly early. Couldn’t sleep. Then bam —something hit me. A story. I had to get it down. Taylor, I haven’t written like this in years . It just… happened. Like a dam breaking.”

Taylor blinked. “That’s incredible. What kind of story?”

David hesitated for a heartbeat, then said with a shrug that belied the gravity of his emotions, “A gay romance.”

Taylor’s eyebrows climbed higher. “Seriously?”

David nodded. “Yeah. It just came out. All of it. And I couldn’t stop. It felt right . Like… I don’t know. Like it’s been waiting there for me all this time.”

Taylor moved closer, his eyes alive with curiosity. “How much did you write?”

David clicked over to the open document. The number at the bottom of the screen caught his eye and he whistled softly. “Eight thousand words,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Since dawn.”

Taylor let out a low, impressed breath. “Bloody hell.”

David turned to him, his heart suddenly hammering again, but for a different reason. “Would you read it? Please? I mean, just let me know what you think. I trust you.”

Taylor blinked at him. “Me? You want my opinion?”

“Of course I do,” David said, without hesitation. “You read. You feel . You’re honest. That’s all I need.”

Taylor was quiet for a beat, then gave a single, slow nod. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll read it.”

David’s grin was immediate, wide and boyish. “Thank you.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the sofa. “Go on, make yourself comfy.”

Taylor eyed him. “You mean… right now?”

“If you don’t mind,” David said, already backing toward the kitchen door as though he might combust if he stayed. “I just—I can’t sit here and watch you read it. I’ll start chewing the sofa cushions. I need air.”

Taylor chuckled and flopped onto the sofa. “Okay, okay. Go panic somewhere else. I’ll give you a wave when I’m done.”

David was already halfway out the door. He crossed the deck, all but leaped down the steps, and then crunched along the pebble path that led to the beach. He didn’t even glance back. He couldn’t. It felt too much like tempting fate.

The tide had pulled out, leaving behind a smooth swath of sand.

He walked it aimlessly, his gaze locked on the horizon, his feet sinking slightly with every step.

Eventually he clambered up onto the ledge below the café, his legs dangling, the sun warming the top of his head.

The Lighthouse stood at the other end of the cove, its white boards brilliant in the sunlight, but he did his best to ignore it.

What if it’s rubbish?

He raked a hand through his hair, frustration and nerves twisting through his gut. It hadn’t felt like rubbish. It had felt urgent. Alive, like something sacred and unfiltered had poured out of him.

Inspired doesn’t always mean good.

He exhaled and leaned his head back against the rock, letting the breeze cool his flushed cheeks.

Please like it. Please see what I’m trying to say.

A voice cut through the tide of David’s thoughts. “David!”

He looked up to see Andy leaning over the café railings, waving.

“Hey,” David called back.

Andy nodded toward the Lighthouse. “You’re being summoned, mate.”

David peered across the cove, and sure enough, there was Taylor on the deck, waving his arms as if he was trying to flag down a helicopter, and even at this distance, David couldn’t miss his huge grin.

Taylor seemed excited, and that was all it took for David’s stomach to flip.

Oh God.

He scrambled up the ledge and jogged along the path, adrenaline surging through him. Taylor didn’t stop beaming as David closed the distance. If anything, the grin grew wider, more luminous.

When David reached him, Taylor all but bounced on the spot. “David, it’s brilliant.”