Page 37 of September’s Tide (Island Tales #2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

In contrast to the previous day, Friday brought rain in abundance, the wind wild and lashing, beating against the windows like something primeval, but it never touched them.

Inside West View, the world had narrowed to soft sheets, warm skin, and the quiet joy of being exactly where they wanted to be.

They barely left the bed.

On Friday morning, they’d woken to the sound of rain against the glass, the sky outside a low-hanging grey.

Taylor stretched against David like a cat, warm and drowsy, their limbs tangled beneath the heavy duvet Taylor had thrown over the bed at some point.

David kissed the curve of his shoulder and muttered something about staying in bed until Sunday.

Taylor murmured, “Not going to argue,” and curled into him, blanket thief that he was.

They dozed and drifted, making love again, slow and quiet this time, their bodies moving in rhythm with the storm outside. No words were needed, only the gentle hush of rain and the occasional moan, swallowed into each other’s mouths.

Eventually, hunger drove them to the kitchen, where they threw together scrambled eggs and toast without bothering to put clothes on.

“Now I get why we’re here instead of the Lighthouse,” David teased. Taylor gave him an inquiring glance, and he grinned. “Living in that place is kinda like being in a goldfish bowl, with every walker and passerby able to peer in and gawk at us.”

Taylor laughed. “Clever man. It’s taken you all this time to work that out?”

David stole bites off Taylor’s plate, and Taylor retaliated by licking butter from his fingers, making David drop his fork entirely.

They padded back to bed, coffee mugs in hand, their bare feet cold against the wood floor, laughing at how thoroughly they’d reverted to teenage sloth mode.

“We’re basically feral,” Taylor declared. “House cats with better sex lives.”

“Speak for yourself.” David settled against the headboard with his laptop. “I’ve written eight hundred words this morning. That’s practically a novel.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow and flopped onto the bed beside him. “Read me what you’ve got.”

So David did.

His gay romance was set in a coastal village not unlike Steephill Cove, with a protagonist suspiciously similar to a certain stubborn surfer.

David read aloud, a little self-conscious at first, but loosening as Taylor listened, really listened, offering the occasional suggestion, poking fun when things got too sappy, but always with that spark of pride in his eyes.

“You can actually write,” Taylor teased at one point in mock surprise.

“Thank you,” David said dryly. “High praise from a man whose last text used five emojis and no punctuation.”

Taylor reached over and closed the laptop with one finger. “Maybe you should shut up now.”

And suddenly they weren’t talking about books anymore.

Saturday was more of the same.

The weather gave no reprieve. Thick curtains of rain swept across the cove in waves, turning the landscape into a wash of greys and green. But inside West View, it was nothing but golden lamplight and the low, constant murmur of the storm.

They didn’t bother dressing.

Taylor had taken to wandering around the house naked, a towel slung over one shoulder, totally unbothered by the windows. David objected, muttering about being too old for cardiac incidents, but Taylor knew it was mere pretence. What gave it away were David’s constant glances.

At one point, Taylor caught him staring and returned his direct look.

“What?” he asked, amused.

“Nothing.” David made as if to look away.

Taylor sauntered over and straddled him where he sat on the sofa. “If you’re going to ogle me like a Victorian husband, the least you can do is make it worth my while.”

David never stood a chance.

Later, they showered together and ended up pressed against the steamed-up glass, water cascading down their backs, their mouths hot and hungry again.

Taylor knew exactly how to draw things out now, how to touch David, how to reduce him to a quivering wreck.

They didn’t speak much, letting the water and hands and skin do all the talking.

Afterward, they dried off and collapsed into bed once more, wrapped in fresh sheets and each other.

They talked for hours.

Stories spilled out of them like slow-falling rain: childhood anecdotes, exes, fears they hadn’t spoken aloud before.

Taylor told David about the first time he’d seen the sea as a kid, how he’d been overwhelmed by the sheer vastness of it.

David told him about the first time he’d been kissed by a man: too fast, too drunk, and utterly unforgettable.

There were silences too, comfortable ones stretched between kisses and hands and the soft sigh of breath in the quiet.

David traced over the ink on Taylor’s right bicep, the tattoo in clean, cursive script: Take me as I am. He ran his thumb gently over the curve of a letter.

“I know you told me about the snake,” he murmured, “but I’ve always wondered about this one. What’s the story behind this?”

Taylor glanced down at the tattoo, then away again, a little self-conscious. “God. It’s not a cool story, if that’s what you’re expecting.”

“I wasn’t,” David said. “But it’s clearly not just decoration. You don’t strike me as someone who does things on a whim.”

Taylor gave a quiet laugh. “I’m absolutely someone who does things on a whim. But this—” he touched the ink “—this wasn’t one of them.”

David waited, patient.

Taylor sighed, settling back into the pillows. “Okay, so. I was nineteen. Living in London, and working at a vintage clothing store in Soho, trying to make ends meet and pretending I had a clue what I was doing with my life.”

David smiled. “Sounds like most nineteen-year-olds.”

“Right? But I was also lonely. Still figuring out who I was, and not really out in any visible, confident way. There was this guy—Jazz. He came into the shop all the time. Gorgeous, with these eyes that made you think he was seeing straight through you.”

“Dangerous,” David murmured.

“Oh, yeah. Jazz was smooth. He flirted with everyone : girls, guys, old ladies buying cardigans… But when he flirted with me , it felt different. He made me feel as if I was the only one in the room.” Taylor paused, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“Anyway, we started hanging out. A lot. Coffee dates. Long walks. Hours texting about music and books. He’d call me beautiful and then ruffle my hair like he was my brother.

He never made a move, but he never pushed me away either. ”

David’s brow furrowed. “So was he…?”

“Straight. Or ‘mostly straight,’ whatever that meant to him. He told me once, ‘I’m not into labels.’ Which usually means ‘I like the attention, but not the responsibility.’” Taylor let out a dry chuckle. “And me? I fell. Hard.”

“Of course you did,” David said in a gentle voice. “He gave you just enough.”

“Exactly. And I kept hoping. That he’d kiss me.

That he’d say he wanted more. I even convinced myself once that he almost did, when we were drunk on a rooftop in Brixton, watching the sun rise.

” Taylor shook his head, half-laughing at himself.

“I finally told him how I felt, and he looked at me as though I’d ruined the punchline to a joke.

Said I’d ‘misread the vibe.’ That I was putting something on him he hadn’t asked for. ”

David winced. “Ouch.”

Taylor nodded. “I was gutted. Like, crawl-under-a-blanket-for-a-week gutted. But when I finally emerged, I knew I needed something to remind myself I wasn’t broken.

That there was nothing wrong with wanting what I wanted.

So I walked into a tattoo shop off Camden High Street and asked the guy to write Take me as I am on my forearm.

” He looked down at it now, stroking the words with his fingertips.

“It wasn’t for anyone else. It was for me.

A way of saying I’m done trying to fit into someone else’s comfort zone.

I’m not too much, or too needy, or too queer, or too quiet. I’m just me. Take me or leave me.”

Silence followed, thick and warm.

David reached for him then, gently tugging Taylor closer until their foreheads touched. “You’re not too much,” he said. “You’re just right .”

Taylor’s throat tightened, but he hid it in a self-deprecating chuckle. “Who am I, Goldilocks?”

David kissed his temple, lingering. “I hate that someone made you feel small for being honest. For being brave.”

Taylor gave a half-smile. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“Still.” David’s voice was low, fierce. “You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate. Who sees you and thinks, thank God. ”

Taylor met his eyes. “Is that what you think when you look at me?”

David’s gaze didn’t waver. “Every damn time.”

A breath passed between them. Taylor leaned in and kissed him, taking his time.

All that pain in my past led me here, to a man who does take me as I am. Who doesn’t flinch at the messy bits.

Maybe Taylor could believe in something lasting after all.

“I’m going to miss this,” Taylor said softly as evening darkened the windows.

David slipped his hand into Taylor’s, lacing their fingers. “We’re not done.”

Taylor turned to him, his gaze steady. “No, we’re not. But I’m still going to miss this. ”

David kissed the back of his hand. “Then we’ll make more ‘this’ later.”

By the time Saturday night came, the rain had softened to a steady drizzle, as though the world was finally winding down.

They shared a simple meal of pasta cooked lazily in the kitchen, a second bottle of wine cracked open.

David burnt the garlic, and Taylor claimed it was a hate crime against Italians.

They danced to a playlist David refused to admit he liked.

Taylor sang off-key to an old Elton John song, while David stared at him as if he was trying to burn the moment into his memory.

Taylor wanted the same thing.