Afterward, with Lily curled against his side, her breathing slow and even in sleep, Alex stared at the ceiling and did what he did best.
He thought.
He thought about the look in her eyes when she'd said she'd miss him. The way she'd given him opening after opening to say something meaningful. The slow dimming of her light each time he'd deflected.
He thought about his mother, who'd given him the ocean as a refuge because she could see he was drowning. Who'd died before she could teach him how to swim in the deeper waters of human connection.
He thought about his sister, who called every few months to remind him that isolation wasn't healthy. His supervisor, who kept pushing him toward public engagement he didn't want. The colleague who'd invited him to her wedding and seemed genuinely shocked when he actually came.
All the people who'd tried, over the years, to pull him out of his self-imposed exile. All the times he'dretreated back into work and solitude because they were safer than hoping.
And now here was Lily—bright, beautiful, impossible Lily—literally wrapped in his arms, and he was going to let her walk away because he was too chickenshit to ask her not to.
You're protecting her, he told himself.You'd be asking her to give up her whole life for someone who doesn't know how to have relationships.
Or, the other voice countered,you're protecting yourself. Using her wellbeing as an excuse for your own cowardice.
Alex squeezed his eyes shut, but the truth didn't go away.
He was in love with her.
Completely, terrifyingly, inconveniently in love with Lily St. John.
And he was going to let her leave without ever telling her.
Because that's what he did. That's who he was. The man who loved the ocean because it couldn't leave him, who'd built a life in empty places because empty places didn't expect anything he couldn't give.
He tightened his arm around Lily, pressing his nose into her hair, breathing her in.
He was already mourning, and she was still right here.
The stars wheeled slowly outside the window as sleep finally claimed him, but his dreams were restless—full of boats departing and words unspoken and a woman with wild curls walking away, always walking away, while he stood frozen on the shore.
Watching.
Silent.
Alone.
Chapter Thirteen
Lily lay perfectly still, watching the light slowly reveal the planes of Alex's sleeping face. His arm was heavy across her waist, his breathing deep and even, and she found herself memorizing details she had no business memorizing.
The small scar near his left eyebrow—she'd learned it came from a childhood fishing accident. The way his lashes, dark and unfairly long, fanned against his cheekbones. The slight furrow between his brows that never quite smoothed, even in sleep, like his brain was solving equations in his dreams.
She was out of time.
The countdown clock she couldn't silence no matter how many times she told herself to stay present, enjoythe moment, don't ruin this with expectations, rang loudly in her head, signaling the end was nearly here.
But expectations had a way of forming anyway, didn't they? Like coral building up layer by layer until suddenly there was a whole reef where open water used to be.
She was in love with him.
The realization wasn't new anymore—she'd made peace with it days ago, somewhere between his confession about tide pools and the way he'd held her during the storm. What was new was the growing certainty that he wasn't going to do anything about it.
Alex stirred, his arm tightening around her reflexively before his eyes opened. For a moment, sleep-soft and unguarded, he smiled at her like she was the best thing he'd ever woken up to.
Then awareness crept in, and she watched the walls go back up in real time.
