“Thank you,” I say. “For today. For listening.”
He nods once, water dripping from the ends of his hair. “Go inside. Get dry. I’ll finish the sink tomorrow if the weather clears.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” He cuts me off gently. “But I will.”
He turns toward his truck, toolbox in hand.
“Ronan?”
He pauses, looks back.
“Be careful driving home,” I say. “The roads are slick.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a fraction. “I will.”
Then he’s gone, climbing into the cab, engine rumbling to life. I watch his taillights disappear down the wet gravel until the trees swallow them.
I stand there a minute longer, rain dripping from the eaves, heart beating steady for the first time in a long time.
Chapter six
Ronan
The rain has eased to a steady drizzle by the time I pull the truck into the gravel patch beside the cabin. Water still beads on the windshield, blurring the pines into soft green shapes. I sit there a minute with the engine off, listening to the tick of cooling metal and the patter on the roof. My clothes are soaked through, shirt clinging cold to my skin, jeans heavy, but it’s not the chill that’s got me unsettled. It’s the memory of her standing close on that roof, rain tracing paths down her face, the way her eyes held mine when she talked about starting over.
I wanted to kiss her.
The thought hits hard and clear, no room for excuses. Not a passing impulse. A real, bone-deep want. Her lips parted just slightly as she spoke, breath visible in the cold air, the faint tremble in her voice when she said she wasn’t going back. I could’ve leaned in. Could’ve closed the distance and tasted the rain on her mouth. Instead, I handed her the caulk gun and kept my hands busy so they wouldn’t betray me.
I shove the door open harder than necessary and step out into the wet evening. The air smells of damp earth and salt. I grab the toolbox from the truck bed, carry it inside, and set it down by the door with more force than it needs. Water drips from my sleeves onto the floorboards. I peel off the shirt, toss it over the back of a chair, and head for the bathroom.
Hot water helps. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, letting the steam fill the small space. But the heat doesn’t burn away the image of her—wet hair plastered to her neck, sweater clinging in ways I tried not to notice, the quiet strength in her voice when she said no one was following her here. I shut off the water, towel-dry roughly, and pull on dry jeans and a clean thermal. The mirror shows me the same face I’ve seen every day for years—scar, stubble, eyes that look older than they should. Nothing new. Nothing changed.
Except something has.
I move to the kitchen, start the kettle out of habit. Coffee feels too heavy for the hour, so I make tea instead—black, strong, the way my mom used to drink it when she was trying to stay awake through night shifts. The mug warms my palms. I carry it to the porch and settle into the chair, even though the seat is damp. The drizzle has lightened to mist. Lights from the harbor glow faint and gold down the hill.
She’s out there somewhere in that cottage, probably peeling off wet clothes, maybe running a hot bath, perhaps just sitting with a cup of something warm and wondering if she said too much. I shouldn’t care. I don’t get to care. Declan’s sister or not, she’s a stranger who’s passing through my quiet life like a stone skipped across still water, causing ripples I didn’t ask for.
I sip the tea. It’s bitter. Good.
By the time the mug is empty, the sky has gone full dark. Streetlights along Main flicker on, hazy in the mist. My stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten since morning. The diner’s still open.Jonny keeps late hours for the night-shift fishermen and anyone else who needs a hot meal, with no questions asked.
I grab my jacket—a dry one this time—lock the door, and walk down the gravel road toward town. The air is cooler now, carrying the clean scent of rain-washed pine. My boots crunch softly. No hurry. Just the rhythm of steps and the low hum of my own thoughts.
The diner’s windows glow warm yellow against the night. I push through the door; the bell jingles. Heat and the smell of fried onions wrap around me. Jonny looks up from the grill, nods once.
“Evening, Ronan.”
“Jonny.”
I take my usual stool. He slides a menu over even though we both know I don’t need it.
“Burger tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah. Medium. Coffee after.”
