ONE / THE NIGHT WE MET.

❛ when you had not touched me yet
take me back to the night we met ❜

𓃗

                                          The knife against her plate made a soft screech as Marisol DiLaurentis cut into her chicken, the sound vanishing into the quiet like a stone swallowed by deep water. Across the table, Elena, her grandmother, reached for the butter dish, her movements deliberate and precise. The worn cardigan she wore hung loose on her small frame, the knit fabric fraying at the elbows. Her hands, lined and weathered, moved with the kind of grace earned only through a lifetime of repetition. Marisol watched as she spread butter over her roll, pressing it into the crust with the back of her knife until it melted into a glossy sheen.

The dining room light cast a warm but uneven glow over the table, leaving the corners of the room to gather shadows. Above them, the ceiling fan turned lazily, its blades nicked and uneven, clicking faintly with each rotation. The lace curtains framing the windows swayed ever so slightly in the evening breeze, filtering the soft purple of twilight into streaks of gold. Outside, crickets began their nightly chorus, a rhythm as steady as her grandmother's measured movements.

"It's good to have you here," Elena said suddenly, her voice quiet but firm, breaking the silence without shattering it. Her eyes, pale and sharp like pieces of cloudy glass, met Marisol's briefly before darting back to her plate.

Marisol forced a small smile and nodded. "It's good to be here," she said, though the words tasted hollow, like they didn't quite belong to her.

Her grandmother's house was so different from the places Marisol was used to. There were no glossy marble countertops, no sleek, minimalist furniture that whispered wealth. Instead, the house was a tapestry of textures and smells, every corner brimming with evidence of a life long-lived. The kitchen smelled of coffee grounds and lemon oil, the latter lingering from her grandmother's habit of wiping down every surface after dinner. The floors creaked underfoot, their polished surface worn down to a soft glow from decades of footsteps.

On the far wall, a cuckoo clock sat motionless, its wooden hands frozen at 2:47. A small cluster of porcelain figurines stood sentinel on the shelf beneath it: a shepherd boy, his sheep, and a girl holding a basket of wildflowers. The table itself bore faint scorch marks along its edges—evidence, her grandmother once explained, of a time she had left a hot pan too close to the wood during a particularly chaotic Sunday dinner.

Yet despite the house's warmth, the quiet pressed down on Marisol. It was a heavy kind of silence, not oppressive, but pervasive—so different from the white noise she was used to in the city. There, silence was a fleeting luxury, tucked between honking horns and snippets of conversation overheard on crowded sidewalks. Here, it stretched endlessly, unbroken except for the creak of the house or the faint call of cicadas.

Marisol picked at her food, glancing at her grandmother. They hadn't spoken much since she arrived. Elena wasn't one for small talk, and Marisol didn't know how to bridge the gap between them. There was love there, of course—solid and enduring—but it was the kind of love that didn't demand words. Still, the distance was undeniable, as though the years apart had eroded some vital connection between them.

Her grandmother cleared her throat, her voice breaking into the stillness again. "How are you settling in?" she asked, her tone careful, as if she was testing the depth of the water before diving in.

Marisol hesitated, her fingers toying with the edge of her napkin. "It's... different," she admitted finally. "Quiet."

Elena nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. "You'll get used to it," she said simply, as if it were a certainty.

But Marisol wasn't so sure.

The truth was, she felt like a stranger here. She didn't belong in this house with its old creaking bones, or in this town where everyone seemed to know each other's names and histories. She belonged to the city, to its pulse and its glittering chaos. She missed the hum of traffic outside her window, the way the city lights turned the sky a perpetual shade of orange. She missed the smell of fresh coffee from the café below her apartment, the buzz of people always moving, always going somewhere.

But the city had let her go so easily. The phone calls had stopped after a week. The texts dwindled to nothing. Even the people she thought she'd miss the most—people she'd spent countless nights with, their laughter echoing in rooftop bars—seemed to have forgotten her. She didn't blame them. The city moved fast, and people like Marisol were easy to replace.

The hum of the fridge broke into her thoughts, its low vibration filling the room. Elena stood, gathering her plate and Marisol's with quiet efficiency. She started to rise, but her grandmother waved her back.

"Sit," she said gently. "You've had a long day."

Marisol sank back into her chair, the wooden frame pressing uncomfortably against her back. Her eyes wandered to the window, where the lace curtains swayed gently in the breeze. Beyond them, the horizon stretched endlessly, the kind of vastness that made her stomach twist. The city was a cage, but at least it was one she understood. Here, the openness felt like it might swallow her whole.

Her grandmother returned a moment later, her hands damp from the sink. She sat down with a soft sigh, folding her hands neatly in front of her. The quiet settled between them again, but this time, it felt less like an intruder and more like an old, familiar companion.

Marisol looked at her grandmother, taking in the soft lines of her face, the way her hands rested so gently on the table. There was something grounding about her presence, even if Marisol couldn't quite put it into words.

"I'm glad you're here," Elena said again, her voice softer this time, almost like a whisper.

Marisol nodded, swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat. "Me too," she said, and for the first time, the words didn't feel like a lie. Her grandmother's gaze lingered for a beat longer than usual, searching, before she nodded and turned toward the small living room.

Marisol watched as she shuffled away, her sturdy frame moving with the slow precision of someone accustomed to conserving energy. The house groaned beneath her steps, its old bones voicing their complaints. A muted glow flickered from the ancient television in the corner, casting uneven light over the quilt draped across her grandmother's recliner. The recliner sighed as she settled into it, the soft rustle of fabric marking her end-of-day ritual.

Marisol exhaled, turning her eyes toward the window. The last light of the day bled through the lace curtain, streaking the walls with soft hues of orange and pink. The silence of the house wrapped around her like a heavy quilt, too warm, too stifling. It wasn't the first time she'd felt the weight of it, pressing into her chest, making her breath catch.

She reached for her jacket slung over the back of a chair, pulling it tighter around herself as if it might act as armor against the quiet. The familiar smell of leather and the faint traces of her perfume—a luxurious floral scent that once turned heads at parties—clung to the fabric. It was one of the few reminders of her old life, a life that now felt as distant as the city skyline she used to admire from her apartment.

The hall mirror caught her reflection as she crossed the room. She paused, her fingers brushing over her hair, still pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her makeup, though smudged from the day, held its form: a soft shimmer of champagne eyeshadow, a thin line of eyeliner, and a gloss that had dulled but still gave her lips a subtle sheen. She looked polished, poised—a far cry from the barefaced, simple styles she'd seen around town. It was muscle memory now, this presentation of perfection, a habit so ingrained that even here, in the quietest corners of nowhere, she couldn't let it go.

Her boots clicked against the hardwood floors as she moved toward the door, each step punctuating the stillness. She hesitated for a moment, hand resting on the screen door's handle, before pushing it open. The hinge let out a soft groan, a sound that belonged to this house, this place, as much as the crickets chirping outside.

"I'll go for a walk," Marisol said, the words coming out before she'd fully decided on them.

Elena glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. "Don't go too far. The fields get dark quick."

"I won't," Marisol promised.

Elena nodded again, turning her attention back to the dishes. Marisol lingered a moment longer, letting the quiet settle around her before stepping out onto the porch.

The evening air met her like a cool balm, brushing against her skin and carrying with it the faint scent of damp grass and wood smoke from a distant chimney. She stepped onto the porch, the boards beneath her boots giving a gentle creak. The sun was nearly gone, its last light painting the horizon in fiery hues that softened into lavender and indigo. Above her, the first stars were beginning to pierce through the deepening twilight.

The world here was different at night. It moved slower, the sounds stretching out in long intervals: the occasional bark of a dog, the rustling of leaves as the wind swept through the trees, the distant hum of a truck rumbling down the main road. The air smelled clean, tinged with the sweetness of wildflowers and the faint metallic tang of dirt.

Marisol lingered on the porch for a moment, leaning against the wooden railing. Her fingers tapped idly against the grain, her mind wandering back to the city she'd left behind. The flashing lights, the cacophony of voices, the ever-present buzz of something happening somewhere. Here, there was nothing but the quiet, and though part of her had come seeking this stillness, now that she was in it, she wasn't sure she could endure it.

The fields stretched out behind the house, their long grasses swaying in the breeze like whispers of something just out of reach. The openness called to her, promising a kind of escape, however fleeting. She stepped off the porch, her boots crunching against the gravel path, and began to walk.

Her steps slowed as the gravel path gave way to soft earth, the weight of her boots pressing divots into the damp soil. The openness unsettled her, a stark contrast to the suffocating walls of her grandmother's house, yet equally relentless in its quietness.

She wandered without direction, her hands brushing absently against the tall blades of grass as they reached for her like fragile green fingers. The scent of earth rose around her, mingling with the sweetness of wildflowers hidden among the weeds. A cluster of crickets chirped nearby, their song a rhythmic undercurrent to the otherwise still night. She lifted her gaze to the horizon, where the last streaks of lavender light bled into the encroaching darkness, leaving the sky pricked with stars.

The landscape here was too vast, too unfamiliar. It made her feel small in a way the crowded streets of the city never had. In the city, she'd been one of a thousand stars, each vying for their own glow. Here, she was a lone ember, flickering against an infinite backdrop.

Her thoughts drifted unbidden to her grandmother, the woman she'd left behind at the table. She could picture her now, settled into her recliner, her hands resting on the edges of her lap like she was waiting for something—though Marisol wasn't sure what. Maybe the evening news, or maybe nothing at all.

Elena's presence had always been steady, like the ticking of a clock, but there was a weight to her now that hadn't been there before. Or maybe Marisol was only noticing it for the first time. Elena rarely asked questions, but there was something in her eyes, a quiet searching, that made Marisol's skin prickle. She hated that look. It wasn't pity, exactly, but it was close enough to make her uncomfortable.

She exhaled sharply, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jacket. This town had always been an escape hatch, a place her mother sent her during the summers when the city had felt too crowded or when Marisol had gotten into too much trouble. Back then, it had been an inconvenience—a few weeks of boredom she endured before diving back into her life of rooftop parties, designer showcases, and lazy afternoons sprawled across the leather couches of chic cafés.

Now, it felt like exile.

She kicked at a clump of dirt, watching as it scattered across the ground. The memories she'd left behind clung to her like a second skin. The whispers of her name in every room, the tabloid photos, the knowing looks. But that life had come with strings—knotted and tangled—and eventually, those strings had pulled her under.

Elena's voice had been soft but firm when she'd called: "Come here. Stay awhile."

Marisol hadn't argued. She didn't have the strength.

She paused at the crest of a gentle slope, the field below her rolling out like a quilt stitched with uneven patches of green and gold. The wind tugged at her hair, loose strands brushing against her cheeks. It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that filled your head with thoughts you didn't want to hear.

Her thoughts drifted like the breeze, stirred by the quiet vastness surrounding her, until a shape in the distance drew her focus—a figure leaning casually against a weathered fencepost.

At first, he was just a dark silhouette, barely discernible against the fading light. He seemed almost like part of the landscape, immovable and eternal, his stillness at odds with the way the grasses swayed and whispered around him. But as she drew nearer, details emerged, each one more striking than the last.

His frame was solid, broad-shouldered and effortlessly upright, though there was an ease to his posture that suggested he wasn't simply standing there—he was rooted there. His flannel shirt, faded and frayed at the edges, clung to him as though it had been shaped to his form by years of wear. The cuffs were rolled up to reveal forearms that looked strong and capable, lightly dusted with dirt from the day's work. His jeans bore the same marks of use, the fabric worn thin at the knees and thighs, clinging in places where the stitching had long since softened.

The breeze teased his dark, unruly hair, lifting it just enough to catch the last traces of sunlight. His face, illuminated by the dying rays of the day, was rugged in a way that seemed carved by time rather than fashion. The planes of his jaw were sharp and defined, covered in the shadow of stubble that blurred the harshness of his features. His skin bore the telltale signs of someone who spent long hours outdoors—the bronze hue of it deepened by the sun, the faint creases at the corners of his mouth and eyes, etched not by age but by exposure.

From this distance, she could make out his hands resting lightly on the top of the fencepost, fingers curled with a kind of loose strength that hinted at an unyielding capability. Even the dirt beneath his nails seemed to speak of effort and labor, the kind Marisol had only seen in abstract—on TV screens or in photo spreads—but never truly understood.

Everything about him exuded a quiet self-possession. He didn't fidget or shift his weight like so many men she'd known in the city, their confidence often a veneer barely concealing their need to be seen. This man—this stranger—seemed untouched by the frantic hunger for attention that had surrounded her old life. He didn't demand the world notice him; he simply existed within it, and that was enough.

Her steps faltered. Something about the scene before her felt like trespassing, like she was interrupting a private moment between this man and the land he seemed so intrinsically a part of. She adjusted the strap of her leather bag, her polished boots sinking slightly into the soft earth beneath her. The field stretched wide between them, and yet the space felt charged, heavy with a quiet tension she couldn't name.

Marisol debated turning back. There was no reason to approach him, no reason to interrupt the solitary tableau he presented. But something—some pull she couldn't quite define—kept her moving forward. Her pulse quickened as she took another step, the sound of her breath loud in her ears, competing with the soft rustle of grass and the distant cry of a bird overhead.

She knew, somehow, that he'd seen her long before she'd seen him. The tilt of his head, the way his shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly, gave him away. Yet he didn't move, didn't call out, didn't make any effort to acknowledge her beyond the weight of his gaze, which had settled on her now with an unsettling steadiness.

His eyes, dark and unreadable even from this distance, locked onto her with a quiet intensity that made her feel both exposed and inexplicably drawn in. It wasn't predatory—nothing about his posture or expression suggested hostility—but it was unwavering, like the sky watching over the earth. It was the kind of look she wasn't used to, one that neither flattered nor dismissed but simply saw.

Marisol hesitated again, under his gaze, she felt uncomfortably real, like the fields around her were peeling back the layers she had so meticulously constructed.

Still, she moved closer, her steps measured and deliberate, as if each one required careful negotiation with the earth beneath her. The distance between them narrowed, but her unease grew with each step. He didn't move, didn't even shift his weight, but his presence seemed to expand, filling the space between them until it felt almost tangible.

By the time she came to a stop, her pulse was thrumming in her ears, her breath catching in her throat. The world around them seemed to hold its breath, the fields stretching out in all directions like a vast, silent witness to the moment. Wells stood as he had before, unmoving, his gaze fixed on her like he was waiting for her to decide what would happen next.

Marisol cleared her throat, a soft and practiced sound, trying to break the tension that hung between them. She was used to commanding attention in the city—her voice a weapon, her words a game. Here, it felt different, as though the air around them was thick with something deeper than just the fading light of day.

His eyes, shadowed by the brim of his worn hat, studied her for a moment as she stepped into the scene, a silent appraisal. There was no warmth, no curiosity—just the quiet distance of someone used to being left alone.

                                                "You lost?" His voice was low, rough like the sound of gravel beneath tires, the words curling from his lips with barely any effort. It was a question, but not one that demanded an answer. It was as if he asked just to fill the space between them, his gaze not leaving hers.

Marisol blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sharpness of his look, the way his eyes seemed to cut through her, seeing past the glossy layer she'd perfected for the city. She opened her mouth, hesitating for a moment. She could have said something witty, something that would keep the conversation light, keep it moving, but the moment stretched, heavy and expectant.

"No," she said at last, the word coming out quieter than she meant it to. She cleared her throat and offered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just looking."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but there was no real sign of amusement. He didn't respond immediately, just took another drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling up into the hot evening air like it had all the time in the world.

"For what?" The question was blunt, no softness to it, no interest in why or how. It was just another part of the world he occupied: plain, unvarnished, and direct.

Marisol hesitated again. It wasn't the kind of question that had an easy answer. What was she looking for? She had always been told what to look for, what to want. But out here, in the quiet of the fading sunlight, everything felt different. Her eyes scanned the open fields, the endless stretch of golden grass that swayed with the breeze, the distant mountains that framed the sky, and for a moment, she thought she might have been looking for something she didn't even have words for.

"I'll let you know when I find it," she said with a half-smile, her voice light but uncertain, as though she was speaking to herself more than to him.

He didn't smile back, his expression as unreadable as it had been when she first approached. His eyes, dark and steady, remained fixed on her, as if weighing the truth of her words, or perhaps dismissing them altogether. But he didn't move, didn't turn away. He just stayed there, the smoke from his cigarette swirling around him like a barrier he wouldn't let her cross.

For a brief moment, she wondered what it would take to break that silence between them, to make him say something more, something that didn't feel like a challenge or a question. But just as quickly as the thought came, it slipped away, swallowed by the stillness of the air.

The silence lingered for a beat longer, and then, without another word, he pushed off from the truck, tossing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under the heel of his boot. He paused before he turned away, his back still toward her, and in the quiet that hung between them, his voice cut through like the sudden snap of a twig. "Nothing here but dust and days," he said, the words almost lost in the breeze, his tone so matter-of-fact it was impossible to tell if he was warning her, mocking her, or simply speaking an undeniable truth.

It was an odd thing to say, so simple and yet layered in a way that left Marisol with more questions than answers. The way his voice had hung in the air, thick with something unspoken, made her feel as if the words weren't just about the town, or the fields, but about him—about everything he was, or wasn't, and everything she could never quite figure out.

She didn't know whether she should feel offended or intrigued. She stood there for a moment, the sun now slipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the worn dirt road, making it look like the world had just decided to stop, like time had shifted in a way that felt almost deliberate. He was already walking away, his steps slow and deliberate, but his figure seemed to become one with the landscape, blending into the vast emptiness behind him. The way he moved, so much a part of this place yet somehow so detached from it, left her feeling unsettled.

As He disappeared into the horizon, the night slowly crept over the land, swallowing the last rays of daylight. The warm orange glow of the setting sun had softened into a hazy lavender, casting long, thin shadows across the fields. The quiet was heavy now, almost oppressive, broken only by the occasional chirp of a distant cricket or the rustle of the grass as a breeze stirred through it. The air smelled of earth—damp, cool, and tinged with something that reminded her of time stretching long and still.

Marisol stood frozen, her gaze tracing the figure of the man until he was no more than a silhouette against the fading light. A strange feeling gnawed at her chest—something unnameable. Part irritation, part intrigue. It wasn't the way he'd left that bothered her, nor the cryptic words he'd spoken, but the way he had settled into the landscape like he belonged there, like he was woven into the fabric of this place in a way she could never be. There was something in that sense of belonging, in his effortless connection to the land, that left her feeling displaced, as if the ground beneath her feet wasn't her own.

She exhaled sharply, turning away. Her fingers brushed the edges of the rusted fencepost she had leaned against moments before, and she felt the roughness of the metal beneath her fingertips, a tactile reminder that she was still standing here, still rooted to this strange place. For a moment, she let the silence surround her, but it pressed too hard. It wrapped around her like a thick fog, smothering her thoughts, making everything feel heavier. She couldn't stay here—not yet. Not with the weight of his presence still lingering in the air.

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, the crunch of the gravel road beneath her boots grounding her, a welcome distraction from the disquiet in her chest. With every step, the land seemed to open up more and more, the emptiness of the fields stretching wide around her like a canvas too vast to comprehend. She felt small against it, her silhouette swallowed by the expanse, yet in that smallness, there was a kind of freedom. A freedom that, just moments before, had seemed so far away in the suffocating quiet of her grandmother's house.

She reached the house, the familiar outline of it coming into view through the dimming light. But as she neared the front steps, she stopped. Her heart beat faster, her breath shallow, as if something was pulling at her to turn back, to run after him, to demand answers to the questions that burned in her mind. But she didn't. Instead, she stood there for a moment, the darkening sky above her, the shadows stretching long and deep. She didn't know why, but she couldn't shake the feeling that, in some strange way, this moment had changed everything.

With a sigh, she stepped up onto the porch, the old wood creaking beneath her weight. Her hand brushed the railing as she entered, the coolness of the evening air still clinging to her skin. She looked back toward the fields one last time, as if expecting to see him there, standing still, watching her in the same unreadable way. But the land was empty, stretched out in quiet solitude, just as it had been when she first arrived.

Marisol closed the door behind her, shutting out the night, but she couldn't escape the feeling that something had shifted. It was the quietest kind of change, the kind that would settle deep inside her and make everything else feel a little off-center. The kind that would linger in the spaces between her thoughts, filling the silence, making her wonder what else she was missing in this strange, unfamiliar place.

She walked deeper into the house, her footsteps soft on the old wooden floors, but her mind still racing, still tangled in the threads of the evening. She wasn't sure what to do with it, or with him. All she knew was that, somehow, everything felt different now.

And she couldn't stop wondering why.

author's note !!!
FINALLY PROLOGUE IS OUT !!!
( i written it two weeks ago but i've forgot to publish it)
HOPE YOU'LL LIKE IT 💖💖💖💖

thank you for the attention !!! 🩷🩷