He had seen glimpses of it in the quiet corners of life. In the way his grandparents still held hands on their porch swing, their fingers effortlessly laced together, as if even time itself couldn’t wear down the connection between them. He saw it in the way his grandpa still kissed his grandma’s forehead every night before bed, whispering the same words he had for decades, "Sweet dreams, my love." It was in the way his mother still smiled when she spoke about the first time she met his father, as if that love had never aged, never lost its magic.
He heard it in the stories the old fisherman at the dock told, sipping whiskey as he spoke about the girl he let get away. The way his voice softened when he said her name, the way his eyes still carried the weight of a love unfinished. A love that had never quite loosened its grip on his heart. There was a lesson in that, one he tried to ignore, but it whispered to him in the quiet moments, in the spaces between all the faces he had memorized but never kept.
And then there were the nights when Chase lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the waves crash against the shore. Nights when the emptiness felt heavier, when he realized that, for all the faces he had memorized, not one had evertruly stayed. He wondered if there was someone out there who would see beyond the stories, beyond the smirk and the reputation, beyond the carefully crafted version of himself the world had come to expect. Someone who would love him not for the chase, not for the thrill, but for the man he was in the moments no one else saw.
Because Chase Montgomery didn’t just want love. He wanted her—the one who would make every restless night worth it, the one who would turn a house into a home, the one whose love would feel like the softest place to land. The one who would kiss him slow, who would trace the lines of his face with fingertips that made him believe in something bigger than himself. The one whose laughter would echo through his days, whose presence would feel like the missing piece he’d spent a lifetime searching for.
And if he ever found her, he knew—he would never let her go. And when he finally had her beneath him, writhing, breathless, whispering his name like a prayer, he’d make damn sure she knew exactly what it meant to be his. Every kiss, every touch, every tangled sheet between them would be a promise—one he’d never break.
2
Coastal Echoes
SavannahMonroehadspentyears mastering the art of control—control over her career, her emotions, and, most importantly, her heart. She had worked tirelessly to build a name for herself as one of Asheville’s top real estate attorneys, carving out a reputation as a woman who never backed down, never folded under pressure, and never allowed herself to be defined by anything other than success. Love? That was something she no longer had room for. It had burned her before, left scars that time had yet to fully erase. So, she shut that part of herself away, buried it beneath contracts, closing deals, and the steady rhythm of work that kept her too busy to dwell on what she had lost.
But then, there was Wrightsville Beach.
The moment she stepped out of the car, she felt it—that pull, that quiet hum of nostalgia carried by the salty breeze. She closed her eyes for a second, breathing it in, letting it wrap around her like a memory she hadn't asked for but couldn't shake. This place had always been her escape, the one corner of the world where she had allowed herself to dream without limits. Summers here had meant freedom. It had meant waking up to the scent of the ocean drifting through open windows, running barefoot along the wooden planks of the dock, chasing sunsets on the water, and falling asleep to the lull of waves crashing against the shore.
She had spent entire seasons in this very house, a place built on love, on laughter, on years of family gatherings where nothing felt complicated. Her parents had always talked about retiring here one day, about growing old in rocking chairs on the porch, watching grandkids chase fireflies in the yard. But life had a way of rewriting plans. Her father passed before they could make that dream a reality, and after that, her mother had stopped coming as often. The house had remained, standing strong against the coastal storms, but it had become more of a relic than a retreat.
Savannah hadn’t been back in years. At first, it was work that kept her away.Then, it became easier to make excuses—to avoid the memories, the ghosts that lingered in every sun-drenched corner of this house, and, most of all, the reminder of a love she once thought would last forever.
She exhaled, rolling her shoulders back as she took in the familiar sight of the two-story home—whitewashed siding, blue shutters, and a wraparound porch that still looked exactly as she had left it. The porch swing swayed gently in the breeze, as if waiting for someone to settle into it, as if daring her to sit and let herself feel everything she had spent years ignoring.
“You’re thinking too much again.”
The voice pulled her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Mallory, her best friend, standing beside the open trunk, sunglasses perched on top of her head, arms crossed with a knowing smirk.
“I’m fine,” Savannah replied automatically.
Mallory arched a brow. “You stood there for a full two minutes just staring at the house. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s emotionally avoiding something.”
Savannah huffed, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “I don’t avoid things.”
Mallory let out an exaggerated laugh, shutting the trunk. “Suuure. That’s why you haven't set foot here in—what? Seven years?”
“Five,” Savannah corrected.
Mallory’s smirk deepened. “Still too long.”
Savannah sighed, brushing past her friend and heading toward the front door. “Can we just get inside before you start psychoanalyzing me?”
Mallory followed, rolling her eyes but saying nothing more.
The inside of the house smelled like salt, aged wood, and the faintest trace of something familiar—maybe the remnants of old summer candles, the kind her mother used to keep burning when guests were over. Savannah ran her fingers along the banister as they made their way inside, memories pressing in with every step. The living room looked almost untouched, the old white couch still in its place, the same seashell decorations lined along the fireplace mantel.
She swallowed.
Too many nights had been spent here, tangled up in a blanket, her legs draped over his lap, his voice murmuring low in her ear as they talked about everything and nothing at all.
She hadn’t thought about him in a long time. At least, that’s what she told herself. But being here made the memories feel fresh, like they were waiting justbeneath the surface, eager to be revived.
Back then, he was the one everyone wanted, the one who never had to try. Charming, reckless, impossible to ignore. And yet, before she ever belonged to Trevor, before she ever fell into the safe, steady love she thought would last forever, there had been stolen looks. Fleeting moments where she wondered what if. There had been a time when his eyes lingered too long, when her heart raced a little faster around him, when it felt like something might happen between them if only she had let it. But she hadn’t. And then, she met Trevor.
Trevor was the safer choice, the one who didn’t come with complications. He had loved her in a way that felt solid, in a way she thought she needed. And for a while, it had been enough. Until it wasn’t. Until the cracks formed, the distance grew, and the love that once felt unshakable slowly faded into something unrecognizable.
She sighed, pushing the thought away. This trip wasn’t about the past—it was about unwinding, resetting, and remembering who she was before life had pulled her in a million directions.
