I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the cold floorboards. My jeans are still crumpled where I dropped them. I pull them on, tug a clean shirt from the dresser, and move through the motions of morning like they’ll keep the regret fromsinking any deeper. Coffee. Kettle. Grounds. Pour. The routine should steady me. It doesn’t.
She didn’t leave a note. Didn’t need to. The door closing softly behind her last night said enough. I told her it was a mistake. I told her I was no good for her. And she listened.
Good.
That’s what I wanted.
So why does the cabin feel hollower than it did before she ever stepped inside?
I carry the mug to the porch and settle into the Adirondack chair, even though the seat is damp with morning dew. The fog is thick again, swallowing the harbor lights below. I sip the coffee and let the burn ground me. She’s gone. Back to the cottage. Back to her life. Back to whatever walls she’s built to keep the world out. I should leave it that way.
I spend the day avoiding town.
I drive the long way around to the north bluff and spend the morning clearing fallen branches from the old logging road that hasn’t seen traffic in years. The chainsaw’s roar drowns out everything: thoughts, regrets, the echo of her gasp against my mouth. When the tank runs dry, I switch to the axe, splitting rounds until my shoulders burn and my shirt sticks to my back. Sweat mixes with sawdust. My hands blister under the gloves. I welcome the pain. It’s honest. Clean. Nothing like the mess I made last night.
By noon, the fog has burned off enough to let pale sunlight slant through the trees. I sit on a stump, drink warm water from the bottle I brought, and stare at nothing. My phone stays silent in my pocket. No messages. No missed calls. She hasn’t reached out. I haven’t either.
Good.
I tell myself that again, louder this time, like repetition will make it true.
Afternoon finds me back at the cabin. I shower—hot water pounding my shoulders until the ache dulls—then sit at the small table with a sandwich I don’t taste. The clock on the wall ticks too loudly. Three-thirty. Four. The light starts to slant lower, turning everything gold at the edges.
I need air.
I grab my jacket, keys, and head into town. Not to look for her. To move. Just to be somewhere that isn’t filled with the ghost of her breathing beside me.
The diner is quiet when I walk in. Late-afternoon lull. Jonny’s wiping down the counter. Marjorie’s gone for the day. A couple of regulars nurse coffee at the far end. I take my usual stool.
“Coffee?” Jonny asks without looking up.
“Black.”
He pours. Slide the mug over. I wrap my hands around it, let the heat seep in.
“You look like hell,” he says conversationally.
“Rough night.”
He grunts. Doesn’t push. That’s why I like Jonny. He knows when to leave a man alone with his coffee.
I’m halfway through the mug when the bell jingles.
A man steps inside—tall, lean, expensive leather jacket over a button-down that looks too crisp for Haven’s Cove. Dark hair slicked back. Eyes scanning the room like he’s cataloging exits. He moves with the kind of confidence that borders on arrogance, shoulders squared, chin up. The type of walk that says he’s used to people getting out of his way.
He heads straight for the counter, stops two stools down from me.
Jonny looks up. “Afternoon. What can I get you?”
The man doesn’t sit. “Information.”
Jonny raises a brow. “We serve food. Information’s extra.”
The stranger doesn’t smile. “I’m looking for a woman. Isla Hart. About five-six, dark hair, quiet. New in town. Rents the cottage up on the bluff.”
My grip tightens on the mug. The ceramic is hot enough to burn, but I don’t let go.
Jonny keeps wiping the same spot on the counter. “Lots of folks come and go. Why are you asking?”
