𝓗𝓲𝓼 𝑅𝑒𝑖𝑔𝑛

64

(Pause it, I'll tell you when to press play, Babes)

Salvatore's POV

She's everywhere. I step into the room, and it hits me all over again. The sweet trace of her-like vanilla and the sea of caramel. Hair ties, delicate jewelry tossed carelessly onto tables, her slippers at the edge of the couch. It's like she's infused herself into every corner of my world, leaving small, soft reminders of her presence. She's unknowingly decorated my space, her innocence woven into the very air.

Kailani sprawls across the plush couch, tangled in my shirt, the black fabric swallowing her whole. She's got this delicate thing going on, her small hands clutching some book I brought her. I never cared about the damn books she liked-didn't even think they'd be necessary. But she had this way of making it impossible to deny her anything.

Her hair's loose today, wild waves cascading down her back. When she notices me watching her, she smiles, this soft, shy thing, and I can see she's waiting for me to do something. Anything. But instead, I just stand there, drinking her in.

She doesn't belong in my world of violence and wealth, yet somehow, she fits. She's made it hers in a way I never could have predicted. But I can see the sadness in her eyes sometimes, the way her lips pull down at the corners when she stares out the window.

She's always been innocent, but today it's like she's in her own little world, buzzing with the pure, unfiltered energy that only she could have.

On the table was a glass of her strange concoction-cucumber, lemon water, and chia seeds. I've seen her drink it every morning, religiously, like some ritual she can't miss. I don't understand it, but it's her thing. Her routine.

"Do you want to try it?" she asks, her voice light, hopeful. She holds the glass out to me, and I can see the tiny seeds floating at the top. The look on her face makes it impossible to say no, even though I have zero interest in drinking whatever that is.

I take the glass from her, lifting it to my lips. The taste is... well, exactly what I expected. She watches me intently, her eyes wide, waiting for my reaction like it's the most important thing in the world.

"Well?" she asks, bouncing a little on her toes, eager for my approval.

That shit is fucking disgusting.

I swallow and raise an eyebrow. "It's... different."

Her face lights up, as if I've given it a glowing review. "I knew you'd like it!" she says, practically skipping over.

And I'd drink it fifty times a day to keep that smile on her perfect face .

She's always touching me in these small, innocent ways. Like she doesn't even realize she's doing it. But every time, it sends a wave of heat through me that's hard to ignore. Her fingers find their way to the sleeve of my shirt, tracing the fabric absentmindedly while she talks about something trivial-yoga, or her skincare routine, or how the flowers she planted on the balcony are finally blooming.

Her touch is soft, barely there, but I feel every stroke of her fingers as if she's branding me. She leans in closer, her head resting on my shoulder while she scrolls through her phone. I'm barely paying attention to the work in front of me now, too aware of her warm body pressed against mine.

"You miss it," I say, more of a statement than a question.

She blinks up at me, confused. "Miss what?"

"The island. Your life before all this."

Her lips press together, and she shifts, trying to hide it from me, but I see the way her eyes flicker toward the window. She's longing for the freedom she once had-before me.