She closes the notebook and tucks it under her arm. Looks like she wants to say more, but doesn’t know how. “I should go. Let you get back to… whatever you were doing.”
I don’t move to stop her. Just watch as she walks to the door. She pauses with her hand on the knob.
“Ronan?”
“Yeah.”
She turns just enough to meet my eyes. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just needed a place to start over. That’s all.”
Something twists low in my gut. Not pity. Recognition. I know what starting over looks like when you’re running on fumes and fear.
“I know,” I say quietly.
She gives a small, tremulous smile, the first real one I’ve seen from her. “Good night.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I stand there a long minute, listening to her car start, listening to the engine fade down the gravel road. Then I walk to the window and watch the taillights disappear into the dusk.
The cabin feels emptier than it did before she walked in.
I pick up my cold coffee, carry it to the sink, and pour it down the drain. Rinse the mug. Set it in the drainer. Same motions. Same order.
But the rhythm feels off now, like something’s shifted just enough to throw everything out of alignment.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the cottage while she’s at work. I’ll patch the roof, fix the sink, and maybe the window. I’ll work alone, the way I like it. No conversation. No questions. No eyes watching me like they’re waiting for me to crack.
And when I’m done, I’ll leave the key under the mat and walk away.
That’s the plan.
I tell myself it’s simple. Duty. A promise I never made but feel anyway because of the man who called me brother.
But as I lock the front door and turn off the lights, I can still feel the ghost of her waist under my hands. The way she looked at me when she said thank you—the quiet fear she carries like a second skin.
And I know, deep down, where I don’t let myself look too often, that tomorrow won’t be as simple as I want it to be.
I head to the bedroom, strip down to boxers, and slide under the covers. It’s too early to go to bed, but I have nothing else to do. The sheets are cool against my skin. I stare at the ceiling, listen to the wind move through the pines.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
When it finally does, I dream of falling ladders and a woman with tired eyes who looks at me like I might be worth trusting.
I wake before dawn, heart pounding, and tell myself it’s just another day.
Just another job.
Nothing more.
Chapter five
Isla
The storm rolls in fast, the way they do on this stretch of coast, with no warning, just a sudden darkening of the sky and the first fat drops splattering against the windshield as I pull into the driveway. I’d barely made it through the morning at the community center when Marjorie came around with her coat already on.
“Power’s flickering downtown, and the forecast says it’s only getting worse. We’re closing early. Go home, Isla. Stay dry.”
I didn’t argue. The roof at the center was still leaking in three places, and my own cottage felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next downpour to prove how badly it needed attention. So here I am, home before noon, keys jingling in my hand as I hurry up the porch steps. Rain starts in earnest just as I reach the door, falling in hard, slanting sheets that soak the back of my sweater in seconds.
