“You followed orders. My last order. I told you to go. You listened. End of story.”
The wind picks up, whipping my hair across my forehead. I feel the sting of salt spray on my cheeks.
“She’s gone,” I say to the empty air. “Because I told her to go. Told her I’m broken. Told her she deserves better.”
Silence for a long moment. Then, softer: “And you believed that bullshit?”
I close my eyes. “I believe I’m not safe for her. Not with Travis out there, not with the way I carry this. What if I fail her, too?”
“You think failing her means loving her? Or letting her love you?”
My throat closes. I don’t answer.
Declan’s voice, my memory of it, keeps going, gentle now.
“She’s not asking you to be perfect. She’s asking you to show up. Same way I did. Same way you did for me until the end. You didn’t leave me because you were weak. You left because I made you. Don’t leave her because you’re scared.”
The words settle deep, heavy as stones in my chest.
I open my eyes. The sun has slipped below the horizon; the sky is deep indigo now, first stars pricking through. The lighthouse beam sweeps slow and steady across the water—reliable, unchanging, still doing its job even when no one’s watching.
I think about Isla driving away this morning—chin up, eyes bright with tears she wouldn’t let fall in front of me. I think about the way she looked at me when she woke in my arms, hopeful, trusting, like I might be worth believing in. I think about the way she kissed me back last night, slow and sure, like she was choosing me despite everything.
And I realize, clear and cold as the water below, that I’ve been choosing fear over her. Over us. Over the memory of the man who called me brother and never once asked me to be anything other than who I was.
I stand slowly, legs stiff from sitting. The wind pushes against my back like it wants me to move.
I’m done sitting on this rock.
I’m done letting guilt decide who I get to love.
I walk back to the truck, boots sure on the path. The engine starts with a low rumble. I turn around, headlights cutting through the dusk, and head back down the bluff road.
The cottage is dark when I reach it—windows black, porch light off. I park anyway, kill the engine, and sit there a minute listening to the tick of cooling metal. Then I get out, walk up the steps, and knock.
No answer.
I knock again harder.
Still nothing.
My stomach drops.
I try the knob. Locked. I fish the spare key from under the mat, the one she told me about weeks ago when I was fixing the roof, and let myself in.
The cottage is empty.
No suitcase by the door. No coffee mug in the sink. The air smells faintly of her shampoo, but it’s already fading.
She’s gone.
I stand in the middle of the living room, hands clenched at my sides, chest tight enough to hurt.
I drove her away and now I have to find her.
I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb through contacts until I reach her number, the one she gave me the day I fixed the sink. It rings once, twice, goes to voicemail.
Her voice, soft and a little breathless, fills the quiet room.
