Inside, the cottage smells of damp wood and the faint cedar I’ve tried to chase away with a candle I lit last night. I kick off mywet shoes, hang my coat on the hook by the door, and pad into the kitchen to check the buckets. They’re half-full already, water dripping steadily from the ceiling in lazy plinks. I sigh, grab a fresh towel from the drawer, and start mopping up the edges where the water has begun to creep across the linoleum.
That’s when I hear the truck.
The engine is low and steady, cutting through the rain as it belongs here. I freeze, towel in hand, heart giving a quick, unnecessary jump. Through the window above the sink, I see the dark pickup pull in behind my sedan. Ronan.
He steps out into the downpour without hesitation, not wearing a rain jacket, just that same faded black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, jeans dark with water almost instantly. He reaches into the bed of the truck, pulls out a toolbox and a stack of shingles wrapped in plastic, and starts toward the house like the storm is nothing more than an inconvenience.
I open the door before he reaches the porch.
“You’re early,” I say, voice raised over the drumming rain.
He stops at the bottom step, water streaming off the brim of the ball cap he’s pulled low. His eyes meet mine—steady, unreadable. “Storm came in faster than they said. Figured I’d get started before it gets worse.”
“You don’t have to work in this.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Roof won’t fix itself.”
I step back, holding the door wider. “Come in. At least dry off for a minute.”
He hesitates, then climbs the steps, boots heavy on the wood. Water drips from his cap, his sleeves, the ends of his hair. He smells like rain and pine and something faintly metallic—tools, maybe, or the truck’s cab. He stops just inside the threshold, careful not to track mud across the floor.
I close the door behind him. The cottage feels smaller with him in it. His presence fills the space the way heat fills a room after the stove’s been lit. He glances around, taking in the buckets, the towel I’ve dropped on the counter, the way the ceiling is already darkening in new spots.
“Worse than yesterday,” he says.
“Yeah.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I thought I’d have more time.”
He sets the toolbox down with a soft thud, peels off the cap, and runs a hand through his wet hair. It sticks up in dark spikes. “I’ll start on the roof. You got a ladder?”
“In the shed out back. But it’s pouring. You’ll get soaked.”
“Already am.” There’s the faintest curve to his mouth, not quite a smile, but close enough that my stomach does a slow flip.
I bite my lip. “I can help. I’m not useless with a hammer.”
He studies me for a long moment. Rain hammers the roof overhead, steady and insistent. Finally, he nods. “Okay. But only what you can reach from the ladder. No climbing on the roof in this.”
“Deal.”
I grab my old rain jacket from the hook, pull on my sneakers even though they’re still damp, and follow him back out into the storm.
The wind whips the rain sideways as we round the house. He carries the ladder as if it weighs nothing, sets it against the eaves on the kitchen side, where the leak is worst. I hold it steady while he climbs first, toolbox slung over one shoulder. Water streams down his back, darkening the T-shirt until it clings to every ridge of muscle. I look away, cheeks warm despite the cold.
When he’s up top, he calls down, “Hand me the shingles.”
I pass them up one bundle at a time, rain stinging my face, hair plastered to my neck. He works methodically, tearing off damaged sections, laying new felt, nailing shingles in place withquick, sure strokes. The hammer sounds sharp against the roar of the storm.
After a while, he pauses, looks down at me. “Come up. There’s room on this side. You can hold the flashing while I seal it.”
I climb carefully, the ladder creaking under my weight. When I reach the top rung, he reaches down, his hand closing around my forearm, warm and steady. He pulls me onto the roof with easy strength, guiding me to the flattest section near the peak. The slope isn’t steep here, but the rain makes everything slick. I brace one hand on the chimney for balance.
We’re close now, closer than we’ve been since the ladder incident at the center. His shoulder brushes mine as he shifts to make space. The heat of him cuts through the cold like a flame.
“Hold this,” he says, pressing a strip of metal flashing into my hands. “Keep it flush.”
I nod, fingers numb from the rain. He works beside me, caulk gun in one hand, smoothing the sealant with steady pressure. Rain drips from his lashes, runs down the side of his face. I steal glances when I think he won’t notice. The scar on his jaw, the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that speak of years spent squinting into sun and smoke.
We work in silence for a while, the storm loud enough that words feel unnecessary. But the quiet starts to press in, heavy with things unsaid.
