A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 67 | a melodramatic scenery

I had a secret, a confession that gnawed at my conscience, threatening to shatter the tranquility of this moment.

I had to tell Dwain about Serenity Inn.

As we walked, I stole glances at him, searching for the right moment to reveal my transgression.

His eyes were sparking with fulfillment, oblivious to the storming range within me.

His infectious laughter echoed through the rain-soaked air, making it even more difficult for me to find the courage to speak.

The rain poured down relentlessly as we strolled hand in hand along the glistening street, each drop seeming to mirror the turmoil within me.

Within minutes, we were drenched to the bone, our clothes clinging to our shivering bodies.

Dwain glanced at me, concern etched on his face.

"We should find shelter," he shouted over the roaring rain. "Let's head to that old abandoned cabin up ahead!"

I nodded, quickening my pace to catch up with him, our footsteps splashing through puddles.

It brought back childhood memories, replaying the numerous instances Megan and I jumped around the courtyard in the rain and got ourselves dirty.

Still too young to even spell our names, we were ignorant about hate, jealousy, or even vengeance, all we knew at the time was how to get ourselves into countless trouble and laugh through the ridiculous punishments Felicia imposed on us.

I withheld an acidic lump building in my throat, before gulping.

How did it happen?

How did we become strangers to each other when things were fine?

Perhaps, it was just me who thought we were on good terms.

I shook my head, brushing off the memories as my eyes swelled up with tears.

Who would have thought that growing up would change everything?

The raindrops kept hammering against our umbrellas, threatening to rip them apart.

My heart raced with a muddle of fear and excitement as we reached the cabin.

The cabin stood alone in the clearing, its paint faded and its windows cracked.

It seemed to have weathered many storms, just like the one raging outside.

Ignoring my sheepish stare, Dwain pushed open the creaking door, and we stepped inside, seeking refuge from the tempest.

The interior of the cabin was dimly lit, with cobwebs adorning the corners.

A musty smell hung in the air, but it couldn't dampen the relief we felt at being sheltered from the disaster outside.

I sighed, my body gradually relaxing as I shook off the rainwater.

Dwain gracefully took off his hoodie and hung it on a rusty hook, the strength and power of his body becoming apparent.

Each muscle, chiseled and defined, seemed to possess a life of its own.

His broad shoulders, sculptured back, and sinewy arms told a story of dedication and discipline.

The play of light and shadow on his skin evoked a sense of awe and admiration.

He was mine, mine to keep.

I couldn't help but feel a surge of possessiveness and appreciation for the magnificent work of art that stood before me.

I gulped, fingers fidgeting as I failed to look away.