Beneath her Skirts

The rain had been falling in soft, persistent sheets all evening, the kind that made the streets of Port Haven shine like black mirrors. Lila Moreau stood under the awning of her favorite bookstore, clutching a paper bag that held a new notebook she didn't need and a novel she probably wouldn't finish. Her coat was damp at the shoulders, and a strand of dark hair clung to her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her hand, exhaling a breath that fogged in the cool air.

Twenty-six felt both too young and too old at the same time. She had a decent apartment she could almost afford on her own, a job as a junior editor at Harbor Press that paid enough to keep the lights on and the wine stocked, and a carefully curated life where nothing ever got too messy. Especially not her heart.

Yet tonight, something restless stirred under her skin.

She told herself it was the weather. The way the salt air wrapped around her like a memory she couldn't quite place. But deep down, she knew better. It had been exactly nine years since Elias Rivera left Port Haven without a proper goodbye, and the anniversary had been circling her like a shark for weeks.

Lila adjusted the strap of her tote bag and stepped out into the drizzle, heading toward The Anchor. It wasn't her usual spot—she preferred the quiet wine bar two blocks over where the music stayed low and no one shouted drink orders—but Jenna had texted her an SOS about a terrible blind date, and The Anchor was closer. Besides, the bar held too many ghosts for her to avoid forever.

The heavy wooden door groaned as she pushed it open. Warmth and the rich scent of aged oak, spilled beer, and something savory from the kitchen washed over her. Low golden lights hung over the scarred bar top. A handful of regulars nursed their drinks, conversations humming beneath an old blues track playing from the speakers. It felt exactly the same as it had when she was seventeen, sneaking in with fake IDs that never fooled the old owner.

She scanned the room for Jenna and froze.

Behind the bar, wiping down a glass with a white towel, stood a man who made her stomach drop straight through the floor.

Elias Rivera.

He looked up at the sound of the door, and their eyes met across the dimly lit space. Time didn't slow down like in movies. It simply stopped existing for a second. He was taller than she remembered, broader through the shoulders in a way that spoke of real work rather than gym mirrors. His black hair was slightly longer on top, damp from the humidity, and those hazel eyes—God, those eyes—still held that quiet intensity that had always seen straight through her defenses.

A slow, devastating smile curved his mouth.

"Lila Moreau," he said, voice low and warm, carrying easily over the music. "I'll be damned."

She walked toward the bar on legs that felt suspiciously unsteady, trying to summon the confident woman she was supposed to be. "Eli. You… you're back."

He set the glass down and leaned forward, forearms braced on the polished wood. The sleeves of his dark henley were pushed up, revealing corded muscle and a faint scar along one forearm she didn't remember. "Three weeks now. Dad's not doing great, and Sofia needed… well, someone who wasn't going to flake."

The easy way he said it made her chest ache. Marco Rivera's health had always been fragile after the fishing accident, but Eli had carried that weight even as a teenager.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said softly. "About your dad."

He shrugged, but his eyes stayed on her face, tracing her features like he was memorizing changes. "He's tough. We're managing." A pause, then that smile again, smaller this time. "You look… damn. You look good, Lila."

Heat rose to her cheeks. She was wearing a simple cream blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans, nothing special, but the way his gaze lingered on the open collar, the slight dip where her necklace disappeared between her breasts, made her feel suddenly exposed. Seen.

"You too," she managed. "The bar looks the same. You, on the other hand…"

He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through her. "Yeah. Grown a bit since I was the scrawny kid chasing you around the docks."

Jenna appeared then, sliding onto the stool beside Lila with perfect timing. "There you are! My savior. This date was a disaster—hi, who's this tall drink of water?"

Lila cleared her throat. "Jenna, this is Eli. Old friend. Eli, my best friend and professional chaos agent, Jenna Hale."

Eli extended a hand across the bar, and Jenna shook it with obvious appreciation. "Old friend, huh? The way Lila's looking at you suggests there might be some history worth unpacking."

"Jenna," Lila warned, mortified.

Eli's grin widened. "We go way back. Used to share sandwiches on the pier when her mom worked doubles."

"And you used to steal my fries," Lila added, grateful for the lighter ground.

"Still would," he said, eyes locking on hers again. Something darker flickered there, something that had nothing to do with childhood snacks. "What are you drinking, Lila?"

"Whatever's not going to make me regret tomorrow's editorial meeting. Pinot?"

"Coming up." He moved with efficient grace, pouring her glass with a generous hand. When he slid it across the bar, his fingers brushed hers. The contact was brief, but it sent a spark straight down her spine, settling low in her belly. His skin was warm, slightly rough from work. She wondered, traitorously, how those hands would feel on other parts of her.

Stop it, she scolded herself. He's Eli. Your Eli. The boy who taught you how to skip stones and held your hair back when you got drunk on cheap vodka at seventeen.

Except he wasn't a boy anymore.

They talked for nearly an hour while Jenna flirted shamelessly with a guy at the other end of the bar. Eli moved between customers with quiet competence, but he always circled back to her. She told him about the press, the manuscript she was fighting to save from mediocrity, the way the city had changed while he was gone. He listened like no one else ever had—like every word mattered. In return, he shared fragments: construction jobs up north, nights spent wiring houses so he could send money home, the decision to come back when his father's lungs got worse.

"I missed this place," he said during a lull, voice quieter. "Missed a lot of things."

The way he looked at her when he said it made her thighs press together under the bar. She was aware of her body in a way she hadn't been in years—the weight of her breasts against her blouse, the way her pulse beat between her legs, the subtle ache that had been building since the moment she saw him.

"Me too," she admitted.

Later, after Jenna had left with her new prospect and the crowd had thinned, Eli walked her to the door. The rain had eased into a mist that haloed the streetlights.

"I'll see you around?" he asked, holding the door open for her.

"Yeah." She hesitated, then added, "It's really good to see you, Eli."

He stepped closer, close enough that she caught the scent of him—clean sweat, faint citrus from the bar soap, something undeniably male. His hand came up, tucking that stubborn strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered at the shell of her ear, tracing down to her jaw for the briefest second.

The touch was electric. Her lips parted on a soft inhale.

"Night, Lila," he murmured, voice rougher now. "Don't be a stranger."

She walked home in a daze, the mist cooling her flushed skin but doing nothing to calm the heat pooling low in her body. In her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and leaned against the closed door, eyes closed.

Eli was back.

And the careful walls she had built around her heart were already cracking.

The next few days blurred in a rhythm of work and restless evenings. Lila threw herself into edits, but her mind kept drifting to the bar. To Eli's hands. To the way his shoulders filled out that henley. To memories of lazy summer afternoons when they were younger—him shirtless on the dock, water glistening on his skin, her pretending not to stare.

On Friday, she gave in.

The Anchor was busier than usual, live music from a local guitarist filling the space with sultry notes. Eli spotted her the moment she walked in. He finished pouring a pint, handed it off, and came straight to her end of the bar.

"You came back," he said, a pleased smile tugging at his lips.

"Couldn't stay away from the terrible pinot," she teased, sliding onto her usual stool.

He laughed and poured her a glass without asking. When he set it down, he didn't pull his hand away immediately. Their fingers touched again, deliberate this time. His thumb stroked once across her knuckle, a slow, sensual glide that made her breath hitch.

"You're killing me, you know that?" he said under his breath, so only she could hear.

Her pulse jumped. "Am I?"

Those hazel eyes darkened. "You walk in here looking like every fantasy I never let myself have, and you ask if you're killing me?"

Heat flooded her face—and lower. She crossed her legs, suddenly aware of how sensitive her skin felt against the denim. "Eli…"

"I know." His voice dropped even lower. "We should talk about it. Not here. Not with half the neighborhood watching."

But he didn't move away. Instead, he leaned in, pretending to wipe the bar near her glass. His breath brushed her ear. "Later. My place is above the bar. When I get off shift. If you want."

The invitation hung between them, heavy with promise. Lila's mind filled with images: Eli's hands sliding under her skirt, his mouth on her neck, the weight of his body pressing her into the sheets. She was wet just from the thought, her nipples tight against her bra.

"I'll think about it," she whispered, though they both knew she already had.

The rest of the night passed in charged glances and casual brushes whenever he passed her. Every time his hip grazed her shoulder as he reached for a bottle, every shared look that lingered too long, the tension coiled tighter.

By closing time, Lila's body was humming with unmet need. She waited outside in the cool night air, heart pounding, as the last customers filtered out.

Eli stepped out ten minutes later, locking the door behind him. He wore a worn leather jacket now, hair tousled from running his hands through it. He looked at her standing there under the streetlight, and something raw and hungry crossed his face.

"Lila," he said, stepping close. Close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.

She swallowed. "Your place?"

His hand found her waist, warm and sure through her coat. "Only if you're sure."

She rose on her toes and brushed her lips against his jaw, the stubble rough against her mouth. "I'm sure."

The walk up the narrow stairs behind the bar took forever and no time at all. His apartment was small but clean—exposed brick, a comfortable couch, a kitchenette, and a bed visible through the open bedroom door. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Eli turned her gently but firmly against it.

His mouth hovered over hers, breath mingling. "Tell me to stop and I will."

"Don't stop," she breathed.

The kiss was everything. Slow at first, exploratory, then deepening with years of pent-up longing. His tongue traced her lower lip before slipping inside, tasting her with a groan that vibrated through his chest. Lila's hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like mint and the faint trace of whiskey, and he kissed like a man who had been starving for her.

One of his hands slid down her side, cupping her hip, then lower to the hem of her skirt. He didn't push further, but the promise was there in the way his fingers flexed against her thigh.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Eli rested his forehead against hers. "I've wanted to do that since the second I saw you again."

Lila smiled, dazed and aching. "Then don't stop now."

But instead of rushing, he took her hand and led her to the couch, pulling her down beside him. They talked in low voices between more kisses—about the years apart, the things they'd both carried alone. His hand stroked her thigh absently, soothing and arousing at once, never quite reaching where she needed him most.

It was torture of the sweetest kind.

Hours later, as the first gray light of dawn crept through the window, Eli walked her home. At her door, he kissed her again—slow, thorough, full of promise.

"This isn't over," he murmured against her lips.

"No," she agreed, fingers tracing his jaw. "It's just beginning."

As she watched him walk away, the ache between her legs and in her chest told her the truth: Eli Rivera was going to ruin her carefully built life.

And she couldn't wait.