CHAPTER ONE
Stella Walsh had gotten good at mornings.
Not just awake-and-functional good. Actually good. Up before the marine layer burned off, camera in hand, catching the light that made Salt Creek look like something from a postcard nobody would believe was real.
She adjusted her position on the rocks, framing a shot of the tide pools. The water was doing something interesting — catching the early sun in a way that made the anemones glow purple and green. She clicked the shutter, checked the image, adjusted her angle.
“Lower,” Tyler called from somewhere behind her. “Get down to water level.”
“I know.” She was already moving, stretching out on the damp rocks without worrying about her jeans. Six weeks ago, she would have cared about getting dirty. Now she cared about getting the shot.
The spray caught her lens. She wiped it, tried again. Better. The light was perfect for another thirty seconds, maybe less.
Click. Click. Click.
“Got it,” she said, sitting up and scrolling through the images. The last three were good. Really good. She’d learned to tell the difference.
Tyler appeared beside her, coffee in hand. He’d started bringing two cups to their morning sessions — one for him, one that he’d hand over when she finished shooting. Like a reward system, except he’d never admit that’s what it was.
“Let me see.”
She handed over the camera, accepting the coffee in exchange. Still hot. He’d timed it perfectly.
“These are strong,” he said, scrolling. “The composition on this one — see how the rocks frame the water? That’s instinct. Can’t teach that.”
“You literally taught me that.”
“I pointed you in the right direction. You figured out the rest.” He handed the camera back. “You’re getting good, Stella.”
“Getting?”
“Fine. You’re good.” He took a sip of his coffee, looking out at the water. “Annoying, but good.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Then again. Then a third time.
She didn’t reach for it. She already knew what it would say—some variation of the messages that hadbeen arriving for weeks now. Her mother had shifted from angry to hurt to something worse. Reasonable.
I understand you’re having a wonderful time. But we need to discuss your return flight.
The twins ask about you constantly. Oliver wants to know if you’ll help with his birthday party.
I’ve confirmed your enrollment. Year 12 orientation is around the corner.
Each message perfectly calibrated. Not demanding. Just... reminding. That she had a life in Sydney. That people needed her there. That this—the dawn photography, the Beach Shack, Tyler—was temporary.
“You going to check that?” Tyler asked, carefully casual.
“I know what it says.”
He didn’t push. That was something she’d learned about him—he knew when to push and when to wait. Mostly when to wait, actually.
They sat quietly for a moment, watching the surfers paddle out. This had become their routine—dawn sessions before the Shack opened, Tyler teaching her things she sometimes already knew and sometimes desperately needed to learn. Photography, mostly. But other things too. How to read the ocean. Which regulars wanted conversation and which wanted to be left alone. The precise amount of cheese that constituted a proper Margo Special.
She wanted to keep this. All of it.
“I want to stay,” she said.
The words came out quieter than she’d intended. She kept her eyes on the ocean, not ready to see his face.
