Bellamy POV
“You don’t need to help me, Bellamy,” Tristan called out as he lifted a pile of broken wood from the pathway. “You can go sit by the pool.”
It was the next morning. The sky was clear again, the storm just a memory soaked into the damp sand. Tristan had been up since sunrise, helping the boatman sweep debris from the docks and fix the parts of the boathouse that didn’t look completely hopeless.
I leaned against a post, arms crossed. “And do what exactly? Watch the palm trees sway in silence?”
He smirked. “Sounds relaxing.”
“It’s boring.” I pushed off the post. “There’s no internet. No music. No people. No anything. I feel like I’m in a survival show that forgot to bring the camera crew.”
Tristan chuckled under his breath as he tossed another plank aside. “Well, that’s kind of the point of Eden. A place to disappear. My parents built this to escape the world.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
He nodded, dusting off his hands. “After the company exploded and Max took the reins with Dad, Mom needed a break. So did I. She brought me here the first time when I was nineteen. We painted, swam, read books. No phones. No pressure.”
That explained the hidden studio. The silence in him.
“She loved it here,” he added quietly. “She said it was the only place she didn’t feel like a trophy wife. I guess it became the only place I felt like a person too.”
I looked at him, really looked at him.
Tristan, the quieter twin. The one always in Max’s shadow. The one who rolled his eyes but noticed every detail. The one who said the least but made every word count.
“I think I get it now,” I said. “Why you want to save it.”
He glanced at me.
“It’s not just a project,” I added. “It’s personal.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It is.”
I walked closer, brushing a lock of hair from my face as the breeze tugged at it. “What would she say? If she saw you working to fix this place?”
He smiled, and it was the softest I’d ever seen from him. “She’d probably say I should stop being so stubborn and let people help me.”
I smiled too. “She sounds like someone I would’ve liked.”
“She would’ve liked you,” he said, his eyes locking on mine.
The world slowed for a moment. I suddenly became too aware of how close we were standing. Of the way his voice dropped. Of how his gaze flicked from my eyes to my mouth and back again.
I swallowed, heart thudding.
He took a small step closer.
“Bellamy…” he started, his voice low, hesitant.
My breath caught. “Yeah?”
He reached up, almost brushing my cheek. “I don’t know… this weekend. You’ve made it easier. Being here. Even with the vomiting.”
I laughed, blushing. “Sorry about that.”
He chuckled too, and for a moment, everything felt light and strange and warm. His hand hovered near my face, and I leaned in just a little. Our noses almost touched. His breath mingled with mine. I could feel it—just one more inch.
“TRISTAN!”
We both jumped like kids caught sneaking out.
A loud voice echoed from the water. We turned toward the dock. A sleek silver boat was speeding in, slicing through the waves like a knife.
Max.
He stood at the front of the boat, sunglasses on, hands gripping the rails like he was the damn king of the world. Behind him were two men—staff, maybe—and a giant crate of what looked like supplies.
Tristan sighed, stepping back. His arm dropped to his side.
“Well,” he said, voice neutral again. “Looks like our rescue just arrived.”