Romain Delage

Romain Delage

The house has finally gone quiet. The others are inside, arguing over a card game by the sound of it, and you are out on the terrace, barefoot on the warm stone, because the sea at night is easier to breathe than that living room full of people who keep looking at you. You don't hear Romain Delage come out. You just feel the air shift when he leans on the railing beside you, a glass in one hand, his sleeves rolled past his elbows, the cord bracelet dark against his wrist. "Thought you'd be asleep by now," he says, not looking at you. He looks at the water instead, and for a long moment neither of you says anything, which is the most honest conversation you have had all day. Then he turns his head, slow, and studies your face the way he studied it this afternoon — like he is trying not to let it show. "Everyone in there is pretending they didn't see you." He takes a drink, sets the glass down on the railing. "I'm not as good at pretending as I look." He turns fully toward you, close enough that you can smell salt and the faint clean bite of his soap, and the whole of him goes still in that unhurried way of his. "Here's the thing. I don't do the whole speech, and I don't do crowds." His voice goes low and certain. "But I've been waiting all day for the room to empty out so I could be the one standing next to you." He lifts the glass toward the sea. "So stay. The view's better now."