Page 2 of The Space Between
Sinking onto the porch step, I press the bottle to my neck, enjoying the peaceful sounds for a moment. Then, I freeze as I hear it.
Boots. Heavy and deliberate… coming from the left of my porch, the direction of the other cabin.
I’m perfectly still as my fingers tighten around the water bottle. A shape emerges from the darkness—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in faded jeans and a dark t-shirt. He’s carrying something under his arm. A bag? A towel? I’m not sure in the muted light.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He just heads straight toward the river like I’m not even here.
I watch him in silence. I can’t look away. I’m not sure if it’s fear… or curiosity. There’s something about the way he moves, purposeful, almost angry. Like every step is a conscious decision.
He gets to the edge of the dock, drops what he’s carrying, and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion.
I stop breathing.
He’s illuminated under the fullness of the moon. His back and arms are a canvas of scars. Pale, raised lines that cross his skin like lightning bolts. Some are small and thin, others appear deep and ragged. They climb over his ribs, down one arm, and up the back of his neck.
I don’t mean to stare. But I do… because he’sbeautifuland brutal all at once.
Then, he turns. Just enough for me to see the side of his face. He’s got a jawline that could slice open the dark, a mouth set in a hard, grim line, and eyes that flash silver in the porch light.
He sees me.
Our gazes collide.
My chest seizes.
For one second, we’re locked in some silent standoff, the air between us taut and humming.
Then, he turns and dives straight into the river with a splash that echoes.
I blink.
He doesn’t come back up right away. My heart lurches.
But then—there—he surfaces just in front of the dock, slicking his hair back with one hand while holding onto the dock with the other. Ignoring me, he tilts his face to the stars.
He lies back, still holding onto the dock. He floats.
Still, silent.
And I think to myself…
This isn’t a swim. It’s a purge.
He’s not just cooling off.
I watch him, barely breathing for fear of disturbing him for who knows how long. The river current pulls at him and he just grips the deck with a tight fist. Finally, he hauls himself out of the river. Water drips from his jeans and down his fit, scarred body. He never looks at me, but I know he knows I’m here. His jawline and fisted hands give him away. Finally, he grabs the towel, and roughly runs it over his face and chest, before stalking past me again, toward his cabin like I don’t exist.
I feel it like a punch to the chest.
Whoishe?
And what broke him that badly?
I don’t sleep.
I try. God, I try. But his image is carved behind my eyes. He’s so rugged, but also so beautiful. Those scars. That silence. Thatlook. Like he was half-daring me to flinch and half-begging me not to.
I toss and turn in the unfamiliar bed until sunrise.
