His thumb traces a lazy line at my waist. “I adore your dimples when you smile like that,” he says, eyes still half closed.
“I know,” I admit.
We don’t move. Not right away.
Instead, he squeezes my hand and leans his forehead against mine as if he’s calibrating to a new center of gravity. The gesture is so him it almost makes me laugh. Always checking the balance. Always making sure the structure will hold.
Outside, the ocean keeps its steady cadence. Inside, something clicks into place.
“I used to think home was a location,” he says quietly. “A rink. A city. A job that made sense to other people.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now it feels more like…continuity.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow and absent. “Waking up and knowing where the next step lands.”
I shift closer, fitting into him without thinking about it. The way bodies do when they’ve stopped negotiating.
“This place,” I say, glancing toward the window, the pale light, the quiet boardwalk. “Fire Island. It’s always been a pause. A return.”
He hums in agreement. “Feels like a good place to start rewriting things.”
I smile into his shoulder, the sound small but real. “You and your systems.”
“Hey,” he protests softly. “You married the math.”
He dips his head, kissing the line of my jaw. His fingers slide along my waist, slow and patient, waking my skin in waves.
“We have time,” he murmurs into my hair.
“Yes,” I breathe.
His hand skims under the hem of my shirt, barely there, a warm path tracing my ribs, heat rising through my chest. He smiles, small and intimate, and lowers his mouth toward mine again.
Then a thin cry slices through the quiet. We both still, one breath caught between us.
When we break apart, we stay close, breathing in sync. Kieran exhales first, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Stay in bed. I’ll bring her to you.”
“Okay.”
Another cry, more insistent now.
He swings his legs out of bed and pulls on yesterday’s T-shirt, moving with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this before. I watch him for a second longer than necessary, the way he pauses at the doorway, listening, calibrating.
The sound blooms in soft violet-blue in my chest.
“Eline,” he murmurs gently from down the hall. “I’m coming.”
The crying eases.
The house exhales around us.
Outside, the island hums on, steady and unremarkable.
For the first time, I don’t feel the urge to chase the sound.
I’m already inside it.
Kieran returns a moment later with Eline nestled against his chest, her tiny fist curled into the fabric of his shirt. She quiets as soon as she sees me, a soft hiccup of recognition.
