When we dock, I load our gear into the truck while she says her goodbyes. Sabaak is waiting at Acca’s—I texted ahead—and by the time I’ve got everything stowed, Sylvie is beside me, hands already cold without her gloves. I open the passenger door without thinking, close it behind her, and stand there for a second with my hand on the roof.
Get it together.
I pick up Sabaak on the way through town. He nearly knocks Sylvie flat when he sees her, and the sound of her laughing with her arms around his neck while he tries to lick herface does something to me I’m not prepared for. Acca watches from the doorway with that look she gets—the one that says she knows exactly what she’s looking at—and I don’t give her the chance to say a word about it.
“Research would go smoother if you stayed at the cottage,” I say, pulling out of Acca’s lot. “Save you the drive out every morning.”
It’s not a lie. It’s also not the whole truth.
Sylvie glances at me sideways. There’s a small smile she’s trying not to show. “That makes sense,” she says. “Logistically.”
“Right.”
“Logistically.”
I don’t answer. She’s already won that exchange, and she knows it.
***
She moves in that afternoon. One bag. She travels light—I’ll give her that. By the time she’s unpacked, Sabaak has relocated his favorite spot on the rug to be closer to wherever she happens to be sitting, and I understand the impulse.
The first night, I make dinner. She sits at the kitchen counter watching me cook—not offering, not asking, just watching with her chin in her hand and those blue eyes tracking every move I make—and the silence between us is so charged I’m half convinced the solar panels are picking it up.
“You don’t have to stare,” I say, not turning around.
“I’m not staring,” she says. “I’m observing. It’s what I do.”
“Sea lions.”
“Among other things.”
I put a plate in front of her. She looks up at me, and the distance between us is nothing—a foot, maybe less—and I watch the color rise in her cheeks. She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
I put a plate in front of her. She looks up at me, and the distance between us is nothing—a foot, maybe less—and I watch the color rise in her cheeks. She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
I kiss her before the food gets cold. She makes a small sound against my mouth, and I pull her off the stool and walk her back against the counter, my hands sliding under her shirt to find warm skin. She whimpers when I palm her breasts, her nipples already peaked under my thumbs, and I swallow every sound she makes as I strip her where she stands.
I take her against the counter, slow and thorough, watching her face the whole time—the way her lips part and her eyes go glassy and her head falls back with a sob when she comes. I follow her over with my face buried in her throat, her name on my tongue.
The food goes cold. Neither of us cares.
***
The days find a rhythm. We’re up before the light shifts—which in June on Adak means early—and out on the island by mid-morning, hitting rookeries near and far. Some we reach on foot, some by 4-wheeler, and some by boat when the distance is too far. She works with a focus that’s something to watch: camera up, notebook out, moving quietly through the grass at the cliff’s edge with more patience than I’d have credited herwhen she first showed up at my door. She’s not helpless out here. She knows what she’s doing.
I sketch while she works. I’ve never had a subject worth coming back to before.
By the third day of this—the sixth day since she arrived on the island—I’ve filled half a pad. I don’t show her. I’m not ready to explain what that means.
The nights are ours. She fits into the cottage like she was always supposed to be here. She makes coffee in the morning before I’m fully awake and leaves it black because she knows that’s how I take it. She hums when she thinks I can’t hear. She argues with me about the right way to layer for wind—she’s wrong, for the record, and she’s also never cold when she’s pressed against my side—and she falls asleep fast, heavy and warm, like the island is the one place in the world her body finally trusts.
I lie awake longer than I used to.
The third night she’s here, she’s working late at the kitchen table, a lamp burning low over her notes. I come up behind her, brush her hair aside, and put my mouth to the back of her neck. She goes still. Then she closes the notebook.
“Wyatt.”
“Come to bed.”
