I watch them settle, Phoenix curled toward the window with her back to the room, Atticus sprawled on his side of the bed like a king surveying his domain. The tension in my shoulders refuses to ease.
“I’m going to be unconscious in thirty seconds,” he announces, pulling the quilt up to his chin. “Try not to overthink everything while I’m out, you too. Lack of sleep is bad for your skin.”
He’s asleep almost immediately, his breathing evening out with the ease of someone who’s never had trouble letting go of consciousness. Phoenix’s breaths are slower, deeper. Still awake, probably, but pretending otherwise.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time, the tin tiles casting strange shadows in the darkness.
No alpha could ever feel strongly enough about an omega to bond with them and then never want to see them again.
Atticus doesn’t know Judah. Doesn’t know the way his face went white when he realized what he’d done. The way he couldn’t meet my eyes for days afterward. The silence that stretched between us like a chasm, growing wider with every moment we didn’t address what had happened.
The loveseat groans as I shift again, trying to find comfort that doesn’t exist. My phone sits heavy in my pocket, full of texts I should answer and emails I should send and a schedule for tomorrow that’s now completely worthless.
Outside the window, Harmony Harbor sleeps peacefully under the October stars. Somewhere out there, my parents are probably finishing dinner, washing dishes, settling into the routines they’ve maintained for three decades. Somewhere out there, Judah is…doing whatever Judah does now. Living his life. Moving on.
While I’m stuck in a tiny room with two people who see too much, pretending that being back here doesn’t feel like having my ribcage cracked open.
Which do you think will be worst? What she’ll do if she learns the truth, or what she’ll do if she never does.
I close my eyes and try very hard not to think about either option.
TEN
JUDAH
The net ripsagain in the same damn spot it ripped yesterday.
I stare at the frayed cordage in my hands, feeling the rough fibers dig into my calloused palms. The repair I did at 4 AM—hurried, half-asleep, too stubborn to admit I should’ve replaced the whole section weeks ago—has come apart like tissue paper. Saltwater and pressure and time. The ocean doesn’t give a shit about my shortcuts.
Third net this month, I think, adding another item to the mental list of never-ending things on the to-do list.Could patch it again. Should replace it entirely.
The morning sun cuts through the fog rolling off the harbor, painting everything in shades of gray and gold. My boat, theSecond Chance, rocks gently at her mooring, her white hull showing the scars of fifteen years of Maine weather. She needs paint. New rigging. A complete overhaul of the hydraulics that I’ve been nursing along with duct tape and prayer.
But I still think she’s the most beautiful thing on the water.
There is nothing like the freedom of sailing off into the early morning dawn, coast receding at my back. Sometimes I like toimagine just how far I might get if I decide one day not to turn back to shore at the end of the day.
I toss the ruined net aside and reach for my coffee, gone cold an hour ago. Around me, the harbor comes alive with the sounds of other boats preparing for the day. Engines coughing to life. Men shouting to each other across the water. The rhythmic clang of buoys being loaded for another run at the lobster grounds.
“Judah!”
I look up to find Brent Tomlin waving from his stern deck, his orange slicker bright against the morning gray. Brent’s been fishing these waters since before I was born, his face weathered into a permanent squint from decades of salt spray and sun.
“Weather’s turning,” he calls across the water. “Might want to get your traps in before the blow hits.”
I wave acknowledgment, already calculating. Storm coming means I should be out there now, pulling what I can before the sea gets ugly. But my crew’s thin—Danny called out sick, and Mike’s handling a family emergency—which leaves just me for a job that is best done with four men or more.
I drain the cold coffee, grimace at the bitter dregs, and start prepping for a solo run. It’s stupid. Dangerous, probably. The kind of thing my mother would lecture me about if she knew. But the mortgage on her house isn’t going to pay itself, and my sister’s college tuition doesn’t care about weather patterns or crew shortages.
The Daniels family has been fishing these waters for three generations. We don’t quit because things get hard.
We just get harder.
The engine catches on the third try—one more thing to add to the repair list—and I ease theSecond Chanceaway from her mooring, navigating through the forest of masts and rigging that clutters the inner harbor. A few other captains wave as I pass. Inod back, the wordless communication of men who understand each other without needing to speak.
Harmony Harbor looks different from the water. Smaller, somehow. The white church steeples and colonial storefronts that seem so imposing from Main Street shrink to dollhouse proportions against the endless gray of sea and sky. From out here, the whole town could fit in my palm.
From out here, it’s harder to remember why I stay.
