I clear my throat. “Declan used to talk about you sometimes. Not by name, just ‘my teammate.’ Said you were the one who always had his back.”
Ronan’s hand stills for half a second. Then he keeps working. “He had mine too.”
“He said you saved his life once. In a firefight. Pulled him behind cover when he took shrapnel.”
Ronan exhales through his nose. “He would’ve done the same.”
“I know.” I swallow. “He was always the brave one. I was the one who stayed home and worried.”
He glances at me then, quick and sharp. “Worrying’s its own kind of brave.”
The words land softly, unexpectedly. I feel them settle somewhere deep.
We finish the flashing. He takes the caulk gun from me, caps it, and we sit for a minute on the slope of the roof, legs dangling over the edge. Rain pelts us, but neither of us moves to go down yet.
I hug my knees to my chest. “I didn’t come here just for the job or the cottage. I needed to start over. Completely.”
He doesn’t look at me, stares out at the gray ocean churning in the distance. “Bad relationship?”
The question is quiet, careful. No pressure. Just an opening.
I nod. “Yeah. Bad doesn’t quite cover it. Controlling. Angry. The kind where you wake up one day and realize you haven’t decided anything for yourself in months.”
He’s silent for so long, I think he won’t respond. Then, “He hurt you?”
“Physically? A few times. Mostly it was the other stuff—words, looks, the way he made me feel small. I left.”
Rain drums on the shingles around us. Wind tugs at my wet hair.
Ronan shifts, elbow brushing mine. “Does he know where you are?”
My heart stutters. “No. I was careful. No social media. Burner phone. No ties here. He doesn’t even know Oregon was on my list.”
He turns his head then and meets my eyes. His eyes are dark, serious. “He's the kind who’d look anyway?”
I think about Travis, his jealousy, his need to control every detail. The way he’d check my phone, question every late night at the studio. “Maybe, but he doesn’t have a reason to think I’d come somewhere like this. I never mentioned Declan’s stories about the coast. Never talked about wanting to live by the ocean. He’ll look in the cities first. Seattle, Portland. Places I know people.”
Ronan nods slowly. “You got a plan if he does show up?”
I hug my knees tighter. “Sheriff’s number in my phone. A restraining order was filed before I left. I’m not going back. Not ever.”
He looks at me for a long moment, rain tracing paths down his face. “Good.”
One word. Simple. But it carries weight.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thanks for asking. Most people don’t.”
“Most people don’t know what it’s like to carry something like that.”
The words hang between us, quiet and true.
He stands first and offers me his hand. I take it, his palm is rough and warm despite the cold. He pulls me up easily, steadying me when the roof shifts under our weight.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get the rest of this flashing done before the wind takes it.”
We work side by side until the last strip is sealed, until the rain eases into a steady drizzle instead of a downpour. My fingers are pruned, my clothes soaked through, but something inside me feels lighter, like the storm carried away a little of the weight I’ve been holding.
When we finally climb down the ladder, he holds it steady for me the whole way. I step onto the ground and turn to face him.
