That might be one of the things I like about him. Dangerous thought.
I steer myself away from it by watching a group of teenagers near the stage dance badly while a sound tech plays ten seconds of music, stops, adjusts something, then plays it again. A woman nearby films them, laughing.
Then her phone tilts slightly toward me but not directly. It’s maybe not intentional. Still, Cole notices before I fully do.
His body shifts by a fraction, placing himself between me and the woman’s camera without making it obvious. It is so smooth I might have missed it if I were not hyperaware of him in every possible way.
“What did you see?” I ask quietly.
“Phone.”
“Taking a picture of me?”
“Maybe. Maybe filming the stage.”
We keep walking, but the world feels slightly less easy now. Not ruined. Just adjusted. I am still the same woman who posed for a sweet teenager at breakfast. Still the same woman who knows public recognition is part of the life I built. But now every phone feels like a tiny open door.
I hate that, and I hate how quickly fear takes ordinary things and sharpens them.
At the end of the boardwalk, the view opens toward the marina. Bluefin Marina, according to the large painted sign near the entrance. Regatta Row stretches beyond it, all gleaming railings, fluttering flags, sailboats, fishing charters, and sleek yachts with names like Second Wind and Bad Decision.
“That place looks expensive,” I say.
“It is.”
“You sound unimpressed.”
“Boats are useful. Floating status symbols are less useful.”
“Spoken like a man who catches his own dinner with string and stubbornness.”
“Line.”
“What?”
“It’s line, not string.”
I give him my most serious nod. “Thank you for clarifying. The dignity of the fish depends on it.”
This time he does smile at my joke. He’s getting better at it.
We stop near the railing where the breeze comes off the water stronger. The marina smells like salt, fuel, sunscreen, and sun-warmed rope. A bell rings against a mast somewhere, steady and metallic. People move along the docks carrying coolers and canvas bags, their laughter drifting up in pieces.
Cole watches everything. I watch him watching everything.
“Do you ever turn it off?” I ask.
“No.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s quieter than you think.”
I lean my elbows on the railing, careful not to look directly at the people with phones. “That makes no sense.”
“It’s just sorting. Normal. Not normal. Worth watching. Ignore. Move on.”
“And where am I in that system?”
