I drag the ladder out, unfold it carefully on the scuffed floor beneath the stain, and climb up two rungs at a time. The metal creaks under my weight, but it holds. I balance on the third step from the top, arms stretched toward the ceiling, trying to press a piece of cardboard against the damp spot to at least slow the drip until someone who knows what they’re doing can look at it.
That’s when I hear the door open.
I don’t look down right away. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, cross the room. Heavy boots on wood. I feel the shift in the air before I see him, like the temperature drops a degree or two, even though the sun is still pouring in.
“You’re gonna break your neck doing that.”
The voice is low, rough around the edges, the kind that carries weight without trying. I freeze, cardboard still pressed to the ceiling, heart giving a quick, startled thud.
I glance down.
It’s him.
The man from the harbor. Same broad shoulders, same dark hair falling across his forehead, same scar tracing the line of his jaw. He’s standing directly below me now, arms crossed, head tilted back so he can look up at me. His expression is unreadable,but there’s something tight in the set of his mouth, like he’s already decided I’m trouble.
“I’ve got it under control,” I say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
“Do you?” One dark brow lifts. “Because from where I’m standing, that ladder’s older than both of us combined, and you’re reaching like you’re trying to touch the sky.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. “It’s just a temporary fix. The real repair guy’s coming tomorrow.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me with those steady eyes that seem to see too much. “Get down.”
It’s not a request.
I open my mouth to argue—because who does he think he is?—but the ladder chooses that exact moment to wobble. Not much, just a fraction of an inch, but enough that my balance tips. My stomach drops. The cardboard flutters from my fingers. I grab for the rung above me, miss, and feel gravity yank me backward.
Strong hands clamp around my waist before I can fall more than a foot.
He catches me easily, like I weigh nothing, turning so my back is against his chest for a split second as he steadies us both. My feet hit the floor. His grip lingers, firm and warm through my sweater, before he releases me and steps back, putting deliberate space between us.
I spin to face him, breath coming fast, cheeks burning. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t say you’re welcome. Just looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m worth the effort it took to keep me from cracking my skull.
Up close, he’s even more imposing. Tall enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. The scar on his jaw catches the light, silver against bronzed skin. There’s a faint shadow of stubble, and his black T-shirt clings to the hard planes ofhis chest and shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry despite myself.
I should step back. I don’t.
Instead, I study his face, really look at him for the first time, and something clicks.
I’ve seen those eyes before, not in person, but in photographs. Grainy snapshots tucked into the back of Declan’s old journal, the one Mom sent me after he died. Declan grinning in desert camo, arm slung around another soldier’s shoulders. The other man, younger and missing the scar, had the same intense gaze, the same quiet strength in the set of his jaw. Declan had written names on the backs of most of the pictures, but not that one. Just a date and a single word in his familiar scrawl: Brother.
My throat tightens.
“You’re Ronan,” I whisper.
His whole body goes still. “How do you know my name?”
“Declan.” The word comes out softer than I mean it to. “He had a picture of you. From… before.”
The change in him is instant and complete. Something shutters behind his eyes—hard, fast, like a door slamming. His jaw flexes. He takes another step back, putting more distance between us than the small room can really afford.
“You’re his sister.”
It isn’t a question.
I nod, suddenly aware of how small the space feels. “Isla Hart.”
