The Shoreline
1114 Words
“Run,” he says.
I don’t think. I just move.
Branches whip my arms as we crash into the trees. Sand becomes roots, roots become traps. The rope still links us together, a heartbeat between our wrists. Every pull reminds me he’s real, and that everything else might not be.
Behind us, engines snarl. A beam slices through the forest edge, searching. Trunks glow white for a breath before vanishing back into black.
“Keep low,” Raf murmurs. “Use the shadows, not the space between them.”
I have no idea what that means, but my body obeys.
We push deeper until the roar of the sea dulls to a whisper. The air changes—it's denser, colder, and full of damp earth and pine. My legs shake with exhaustion; my lungs are burning from the salt still clinging inside.
He stops suddenly, immediately crouching low. I nearly collided with him.
“Listen,” he says.
I do. All I hear are crickets. The sea’s distant sigh. No footsteps. No engines.
“Did we lose them?” I whispered.
“For now,” he turns his head, scanning the dark. “They’ll circle again. This island isn’t large.”
“So what do we hide?”
“For the moment. Yes. Then we find higher ground.”
I sink to my knees, pressing my palms into the moss. My whole body vibrates with leftover adrenaline. “We were supposed to be in Rome,” I murmur. “Eating pasta. Not running from guns.”
Raf’s mouth flickers—almost a smile, mostly regret. “Plans change.”
“That’s your philosophy?”
“It’s survival.”
He crouches beside me, fingers working the rope between us. The knot loosens, but he doesn’t remove it completely. “Until we’re sure it’s clear, we stay connected.”
“Can someone say trust issues much?” I said, rolling my eyes at him.
“Experience.” His response is clipped, firm.
The word is too heavy for the quiet.
I stare at his hands—they're steady, scarred, and practical. The same hands that dragged me through the sea now tremble faintly when he exhales. He notices me noticing and looks away.
“How do you know they won’t find us?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, that’s comforting.”
He tilts his head, studying me through the half-light. “You’re handling this better than most civilians.”
“Civilians?”
“Tourists. Party guests. People who freeze when the noise starts.”
“Maybe I’m still frozen,” I say. “Just…in motion.”
He makes a sound that could be agreement. “Keep it that way.”
We move again, slower now. The trees knit tighter overhead, blocking moonlight. My shoes start to squelch with every step. It sounds like a confession. Somewhere far off, a seagull screams—a lonely, human sound.
After a while, the ground begins to slope upward. Raf gestures for me to stop and, as he kneels, he touches the soil. “Fresh tracks. And they are not ours.”
“Animal?” Please say animal, I beg silently to myself.
“Boots.”
“Please tell me it’s your people.” I'm outwardly begging now.
“Could be.” His tone says it isn’t.
"Great," I say with all the sarcasm I can currently muster up.
He looks toward the ridge, then at me. “Stay behind me. No matter what you see.”
“What does that mean?” My voice raised just a little from the tension.
He doesn’t answer. He just listens again, head tilted like the forest speaks a language only he understands. When he moves, it’s soundless. I follow because silence feels safer than questions.
The trees thin, revealing a faint line of moonlight—it's a clearing, small and uneven. In the center sits a wrecked rowboat half-buried in sand and ivy. A tarp flaps softly against its frame.
Raf approaches first, checking every shadow before he lets me step closer. The boat smells of rust and rain, long abandoned. Inside: a broken oar, an empty flask, a torn jacket.
He presses a palm against the hull. “Recent,” he mutters.
“Recent how recent?”
“Hours. Maybe less.”
Goosebumps breakout across my arms as a chill runs down my spine. “Then someone else is here.”
“Yes.”
He turns in a slow circle, eyes narrowing. “But they didn’t stay.”
“Maybe they came from the other boat?”
“Maybe.” His voice says no.
A gust rattles the canopy. Pine needles rain down like whispering applause.
I tug the rope between us. “What now?”
He looks toward the rise of land where the trees become a jagged silhouette against sky. “We climb.”
“Toward the people with guns?”
“Toward answers.”
He starts walking. I still stand long enough to think of Lena—somewhere out there, maybe safe, maybe not—and of the man called Silas. If Raf trusts him, I have to. It’s that or drown on dry land.
“Hey.” I catch up, falling into step beside him. “If this is survival, what’s next?”
“Making it until morning.”
“And after morning?”
He looks at me—just a flicker of green catching moonlight. “Then we start looking for who did this.”
“Because they tried to kill you?”
“Because they tried to kill you,” he corrects, quiet enough that I almost miss it.
The words lodge somewhere behind my ribs, confusing everything—fear, adrenaline, the new edge of trust.
We keep climbing until the trees thin again. The ridge opens onto a narrow bluff overlooking black water. The yacht is a speck of firelight miles away. The other boat circles once, then drifts out of view.
“See?” he says softly. “They’ll think we drowned.”
“Lucky them.”
He sits, pulling the rope slack between us until our wrists nearly touch. “Rest. We’ll move before dawn.”
“You trust this spot?”
“I trust momentum, Bella.”
That almost-smile again. Exhaustion hits me like gravity. I lower myself onto the moss beside him, listening to the heartbeat of waves against the rocks. My mind hums with too much unsaid questions about Lena, about him, about why danger follows men with eyes like his.
When sleep finally drags me under, I dream of water—black and endless, the rope still between us, the current deciding where we go next.
- Writer
