Litany Of Sins

12 Nostalgia

CHAPTER 12

Nostalgia

The ride back was defined by a silence that felt heavier than the conversation they’d had over dinner. Lila sat with her head turned, her gaze fixed on the blurred streetlights of Brisbane passing outside the window, effectively creating a wall between them.

Everett gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He was driving with the forced composure of a man trying to keep his composure from shattering. Every time he glanced over at her profile—the soft line of her jaw, the way her hair fell against her neck—the interior of the car seemed to shrink, the air thick with the phantom heat of a different place and time.

He was not looking at the road anymore. He was looking at her, but he was not seeing the woman who insisted on splitting the bill. He was seeing the version of her that belonged to him, or at least, the one he used to possess.

His right hand, resting on the center console, twitched. His fingers curled, aching with a sudden, violent muscle memory. He could feel it—the phantom weight of her hips beneath his palms. He remembered exactly how she felt when he held her there, her skin burning against his calloused skin as he set the rhythm, deep and relentless.

He could still feel the way she used to arch into him, pulling him closer as if she couldn't get enough, as if the only thing that mattered in the world was the friction of their bodies colliding.

The memory was so vivid it made his blood run hot. He could almost feel the phantom pressure of her legs wrapped tight around his waist, the way her breath used to hitch in her throat, shattered and ragged, just before she broke.

And then, his gaze drifted to her mouth.

He remembered the taste of her—sweet, desperate, and devastatingly familiar. He remembered how those plump lips had felt against his, bruised and swollen from his own kisses, parted and breathless, whispering his name into the dark of that old sedan.

The urge to reach out, to trace the line of her jaw and tilt her face toward him just to see if she still tasted the same, was almost painful. He tightened his grip on the wheel, fighting the urge to pull over. He was physically starving for the sensation of her, a hunger that ten years of absence hadn't dulled in the slightest.

Lila shifted in her seat, and the movement snapped him back to reality. She did not look at him, but she adjusted her strap, her movement graceful and distant.

Everett let out a slow, sharp breath, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You are very quiet, Lila,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that used to be his favorite way to get her attention. “Thinking about something? Or just waiting for the ride to end?”

He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell her that his hands were shaking from the sheer effort of not touching her. Instead, he just kept his eyes on the road, praying the remaining minutes to her apartment would not be the longest of his life.

The silence in the car had become a physical weight, pressing against Lila’s chest until she could not take it anymore. She needed air. She needed to move, to do something that was not sitting still and drowning in the memory of his hands.

She turned her head, the soft glow of the dashboard casting shadows across her face. “Do you want to buy some beers and go to the beach wait for the sunrise?” she asked, the words spilling out before she could check the impulse.

Everett did not look at her, but the way his grip on the wheel slackened for a fraction of a second told her everything. He let out a low, breathless chuckle, a sound that vibrated in the small cabin. “Just like the old times,” he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, dark nostalgia.

“Yeah…” She answered softly as she looked back out of her window and then turned back to him, “Before you leave Australia and go back home, let us do something fun and stop being strangers for a second.”

He did not ask if she was sure. He did not ask if it was a good idea. He simply signaled, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror as he swerved to take the next exit toward the coast. “Alright, sounds like a plan.”

The convenience store run had been brief and transactional, a small piece of normalcy before the night veered into something far more dangerous.

They found a stretch of beach tucked away from the main promenade, a quiet, moonlit cove where the rhythmic crashing of the waves was the only thing that filled the silence. It was a stark contrast to the upscale restaurant—no white tablecloths, no clinical observations, just the vast, dark expanse of the ocean and the cooling sand.

Lila kicked off her heels the moment they hit the soft, cool powder of the dune. She let out a sharp, involuntary sigh as her bare feet sank into the sand, the grit settling between her toes. It felt like shedding a layer of armor. Behind her, Everett did the same, his dress shoes abandoned near the scrub. He was slower, his eyes fixed on the way her silhouette moved against the starlight.

“It is colder than I thought it would be,” Lila murmured, hugging her arms around herself. The wind whipped her hair across her face, tangling it in the sea salt air.

Everett did not say anything immediately. He walked a few paces behind her, the six-pack of beer heavy in his hand, his eyes tracking the way her hips swayed with every step—the exact movement he had been replaying in his head for the entire drive.

“Sit,” he said finally, his voice low against the roar of the tide.

He did not wait for her to choose a spot. He stepped ahead of her, shrugging out of his blazer. The dark, expensive fabric caught the moonlight as he spread it carefully over a patch of sand, a small, dark island in the vast brightness. He straightened, looking at her with an expression that was halfway between a challenge and a surrender.

“Sit,” he repeated, softer this time. “The sand will ruin your chinos.”

Lila hesitated, the gesture triggering a rush of muscle memory so potent it made her dizzy. It was exactly what he used to do—the protective, possessive instinct that he had always masked as chivalry. She looked at the jacket, then up at him, her eyes searching his face. He looked like the man she had known a decade ago, stripped of the professional polish, raw and expectant.

“Thank you,” she said, the words feeling fragile.

She sat, smoothing her skirt as she sank onto the jacket. It still held the faint, sharp scent of his cologne—sandalwood and cedar—and the lingering warmth of his body. It was a suffocatingly intimate space to occupy.

Everett sat down beside her, not too close, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. He popped the tab on one of the beers and handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers—a deliberate, lingering touch that made her skin prickle.

“Better than a booth in Brisbane?” he asked, cracking open his own can.

Lila took a long, steadying sip of the beer, staring out at the white crests of the waves in the dark. She was trying to compartmentalize, trying to remind herself that he was just a man from her past, but the sound of the ocean was tearing down the walls she had spent three years building.

“It is different,” she said, her voice barely audible over the surf.

“Different,” he echoed, a dry, humorless laugh escaping him as he leaned back on his hands, looking at the stars. “That is one word for it.”

He turned his head then, his gaze heavy and unblinking, watching her in the moonlight as the sound of the waves echoed. “You are trembling again, Lila.”

She did not deny it.

She could not.

“It is the wind,” she lied, her voice straining to stay steady.

“Is it?” Everett asked, his tone dropping into that dangerously low register that made her breath hitch. He did not move toward her, but the intensity of his focus made her feel as if he were already touching her. “Or is it just that you are finally remembering what happens when we are alone?”