“Ronan, it’s Deputy Ellis.” Her voice is calm, professional, the way it always is when she’s delivering news she knows will matter. “Travis is being held. No bail hearing until tomorrow at the earliest, but the judge already signed the emergency restraining order. Assault with a deadly weapon, breaking and entering, terroristic threats, and violation of the existing protection order from back east. The prosecutor’s stacking charges. He’s not going anywhere soon.”
Relief hits me hard enough that I have to brace a hand on the mattress. “Is he secure?”
“Locked down tight. We’ve got extra eyes on the holding cell. You and Isla can breathe easier tonight.”
“Thanks, Ellis. Appreciate the call.”
“Anytime. You two take care.”
I end the call and set the phone down. Isla’s watching me, sweater forgotten in her hands.
“He’s not getting out,” I tell her. “Restraining order’s active. Charges are solid. He’s staying put.”
She exhales a long, shaky breath that seems to pull half the tension out of her shoulders. The sweater drops into the suitcase. She crosses the room in three steps and sinks onto my lap, arms wrapping around my neck. I pull her close, bury my face in her hair, breathe her in like she’s oxygen after too long underwater.
“We’re safe,” she whispers against my throat.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “We are.”
We stay like that a while, her straddling my thighs, my hands splayed across her back, holding on like I’m afraid the moment will slip away if I loosen my grip. The cottage is quiet except for the distant roll of waves and the occasional creak of the old house settling. Sunlight slants through the window, warming the side of her face, catching gold in her lashes.
Eventually, she pulls back just enough to look at me. “I almost left. I was so scared—not just of him, but of staying here and hoping for something that might break again.”
“I know.” I brush my thumb along her cheekbone. “I almost let you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.” I swallow. “Not after everything. Not after last night. Not after seeing what walking away would cost both of us.”
She leans her forehead against mine. “So we stay.”
“We stay.”
The words feel like a vow—simple, solid, the kind you don’t need a ring or a ceremony to make real.
We don’t rush to unpack. There’s no hurry now. Instead, we move through the cottage together, slow and deliberate. I carry the suitcase back to the closet while she hangs the clothes she’d folded. We make the bed with fresh sheets. I help her smooth the quilt, tuck the corners the way my mom taught me years ago, and when our hands meet in the middle, we both smile.
Evening creeps in soft and gold. We walk down to the harbor together, her hand in mine, fingers laced, no hurry in our steps. The town is waking up after the storm: boats bobbing gently, fishermen calling to each other across the docks, the diner’s neon sign flickering on early. People nod as we pass—familiar faces, curious glances that linger a second longer when they see our joined hands.
Marjorie spots us first. She’s sweeping the community center steps, pauses mid-motion when she sees us coming.
“Well,” she says, smile spreading slowly and warmly. “Look at you two.”
Isla squeezes my hand. “Hey, Marjorie.”
“You staying, then?” The question is gentle, but there’s hope in it.
Isla glances up at me, eyes shining. “Yeah. I’m staying.”
Marjorie’s smile widens. “Good. Town’s better with you in it.” She looks at me next. “And you don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been hiding up on that bluff too long. About time you came down and joined the living.”
I duck my head, feel heat crawl up my neck. “Working on it.”
She pats my arm as we pass. “Keep working. We like having you around.”
We keep walking. At the hardware store, Hank waves from the doorway, toolbox in hand. “Black! You still owe me that consult on the dock pilings!”
“Tomorrow,” I call back. “I’ll stop by.”
