“Then you learn,” she says simply. “That’s what love’s for.”
Love. The word lands heavy and soft, like the first drop before rain.
By dusk, I’m already driving toward the lighthouse.
The road curls around the bay, the sky melting into golds and bruised purples. The water mirrors it all, endless and calm. My pulse isn’t calm. It’s a storm that’s been waiting for somewhere to land.
When I park, the light from her apartment window already sweeps across the horizon—steady, rhythmic, patient. Just like when the beam from the lighthouse guided sailors. The first time I saw that beam as a kid, I thought it was magic. Now I know better. It’s work. It’s care. It’s someone remembering to keep the light on for people who can’t yet see the shore.
The door’s open. I knock anyway.
“Crew?” Her voice floats from the back room.
“Yeah.”
She appears in the doorway, hair loose, cheeks flushed from whatever she’s been doing. She’s barefoot, wearing an oversized gray sweater that hangs just off one shoulder. My heartbeat does something reckless.
“You hungry?” she asks.
“I’m always hungry.”
She tilts her head, nodding toward the small kitchen. “Good, because I cooked enough pasta for a small village.”
“Guess it’s your turn to feed the strays.”
Her smile curves slowly. “Dock?”
“Always.”
The dock hums beneath our feet, wood still warm from the day. The tide is low, gentle. The world smells like salt and garlic bread and the faint hint of rain carried in from somewhere far off. There is a small covered section off to the side, and she spreads a blanket, pours wine into mismatched mugs, and sits cross-legged, the sunset painting her in firelight.
I sit across from her, knees brushing hers. “You do this often?”
“Eat on docks with men who drive me crazy? Only on Thursdays.”
“Good. It’s Friday.”
Her laugh slips out before she can stop it. “You’re impossible.”
“Consistent.”
“Persistent,” she corrects.
“Accurate.”
She shakes her head, but her smile lingers. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make me laugh right when I’m trying to stay guarded.”
“Maybe that’s my defense mechanism.”
“Or your superpower.”
“Depends on the villain,” I say, and she laughs again, softer this time, like it’s just for me.
The food’s simple—pasta, vegetables, bread that crunches too loud—but it tastes better than any five-star meal I’ve ever had. Maybe it’s the company. Perhaps it’s the sound of her humming under her breath while she eats, or the way the wind catches the end of her hair and brushes it against my hand.
