SirianaSims

Darkness envelops us, but I’d know the shape of her body anywhere, her every curve, the softness of her thighs wrapped around my waist, the arch of her back as I move inside her.

I feel her voice more than I hear it, the vibration of her moans against my neck, sounds that are so distinctly hers, and that I like to pretend I’m the only man who can draw from her.

Her breath quickens against my ear, begging me to come. With each thrust bringing us closer to the edge, my body tenses, muscles straining in anticipation. Her nails dig into my shoulders, fingers gripping tightly as we near our breaking point.

Just as I reach my climax, I see her face.

She’s crying.

The sight of her tears jolts me awake. Immediately, the dream starts fading, slipping through my fingers like sand through an hourglass, the wet spot on my boxers quickly becoming cold against my skin, and my mind filled with visions of red hair cascading over my pillows.

The room around me feels familiar, yet wrong, and I realise I’m on the floor.

I prop myself up on a slightly sore elbow, still disoriented. The old carpet is rough against my sweaty skin, tiny bits of dust and debris sticking to my side. It’s barely light outside, but there’s no way I’m going back to sleep like this.

I grab a towel and walk downstairs in a daze, not quite convinced I actually woke up yet.

The first shock of cold water helps, rinsing off the clammy sweat as well as the fading remnants of the nightmare as the water slowly gets warmer.

By the time I get out of the shower, I can barely recall what happened in the dream, just a faint, unpleasant feeling that is remarkably close to grief.

I haven’t had nightmares for years. They used to happen a lot, especially in the first few years after I lost my father, but those went away over time.

They only came back once, early in my career, when I had to grow out my beard for a role and found his face staring back at me from every mirror. When we finished filming, I shaved before I even left the set and never grew it out again.

But even without the beard, I still look more and more like him with each passing day. And soon, just a couple of years from now, I will be older than he ever was.

The very idea feels unnatural, obscene.

I leave the bathroom and find myself face to face with my mother, startling both of us. She takes a step back, wobbling slightly on her bad leg but manages to steady herself.

“Sorry, mum, did I wake you?”

She shakes her head, her eyes searching mine. “No, but I heard the shower and wondered why you were up so early. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” I reply, my throat feeling tight. “I just… had a strange dream and woke up drenched in sweat. Didn’t feel like trying to fall back asleep.”

“So… would you like some coffee, perhaps? I don’t think I can sleep either, and we might as well enjoy the last bit of summer while we can.”

“That sounds great. Let me get dressed and throw my sheets in the laundry and I’ll join you.”

My hair dries quickly in the breeze, the salty tang of the ocean mingling with the fragrance of lavender and lemon. The early morning light casts a soft pink glow over the garden. I used to hide with my cousins in these bushes, climb the trees and pretend to be pirates or explorers. Or superheroes. I feel a twitch in the corner of my mouth at the memory, even though the lingering sadness of the nightmare still clings to me like a damp sheet.

I think about the dream, about Julia. Sometimes I miss her so much it hurts, a physical ache in my chest, and it’s rare that a day goes by where I don’t think about what would happen if I saw her again. I still have no idea. I don’t know what I want, only that I want. It’s as if I yearn for something I can’t quite decide what is.

My mother adds copious amounts of cream and sugar to her coffee and stirs it slowly, her gaze on the coast beyond the garden. Her silver hair catches the golden light.

“Mum,” I begin, clearing my throat. “Why didn’t you find someone else? After babbo, I mean.” The words feel heavy, almost accusatory, especially here in his favourite part of the garden.

My mother pauses, thoughtfully, mug raised to her lips. For a second I worry that I’ve crossed a line, poked at an old wound, but then she sighs, her eyes distant.

“I don’t want you to think differently of him because of this.”

“Differently? How?”

“You’ve heard what my parents were like, they had a lot of plans for me. A respectable match, wealthy husband, securing their lineage. So, to stall for time, I decided to travel for a while.”

I nod. I’ve never met the earl and duchess of Westhaven, but from what my mother has told me, it’s no great loss. They wouldn’t acknowledge either of us anyway. “And then you came to Tartosa, found love, and never went back.” It isn’t a question, I’ve heard the story many times before.

She traces the rim of her mug with a finger.

“Not quite. I didn’t want the kind of life that was planned for me, the endless performance, the strategic marriage to some lord. But it was more than that. I never wanted to get married at all, Paul. And I wasn’t interested in any kind of romantic relationship, either.”

Her voice is soft, almost apologetic, and I lean back, brow furrowed. It always sounded like my parents had the perfect whirlwind romance, with my father famously proposing after only knowing her for two weeks.

“So… did meeting my father change your mind, then?”

She shakes her head, a soft smile on her lips. “I had never met anyone like Marcello. His easy laugh, his presence, the way he seemed to fill any room when he walked in.” She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. “Much like you. We became friends, and when he heard about my parents’ plans for me, he proposed.”

“Oh.” My mind is filled with questions and I struggle to even decide which one to ask first, but my mother quickly continues.

“Your father was everything to me, Paul. He understood. When I met him, I wasn’t looking for an escape. But he offered me freedom.”

“But you said you didn’t want… romance. Doesn’t everyone want love? Didn’t he? And how did… why did you even have me, if…”

I trail off awkwardly.

“We had love,” she says quietly. “But love doesn’t look the same for everyone. I didn’t marry him because I wanted him, I married him because he loved me and I knew he would never make me feel like I was broken for not loving him in quite the same way. And he never asked for more than I could give, which was why I wanted to give him you.”

I swallow, understanding slowly dawning on me. “So, it wasn’t about not moving on, was it?”

“No. When your father died, I lost my dearest friend. He was my life partner in every way that mattered. But another husband?” She shakes her head, putting her mug down. “That was never something I wanted. Marcello can never be replaced, but I don’t need to. I have you, I have our family. There was never any reason to find someone else, because I already have everything.”

We sit quietly for a while. The sun is higher now, slowly filling the garden with warmth. I still feel slightly shaken, unmoored by the realisation that the love story I grew up with, that I’ve always compared my own relationships to, isn’t what it seemed. But I also feel lighter somehow, closer to my mother than before. And then, for a brief moment, I can almost feel my father here too, woven into the morning air, carried by the scent of lemon and lavender.