My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. Probably Matthew checking in again. Yesterday's text still sat unanswered:
Matthew:Still alive, or did you drown your sorrows in the hotel bar? Asking for a brother who thinks you've been kidnapped by mermaids.
Alex traced a fingertip around the rim of his coffee cup, tilting his head slightly like he was considering me from a new angle.
"You know," he said, voice light but eyes sharp, "you have a great voice. If you'd taken debate in high school, you could have wiped the floor with some of my teammates."
I snorted into my coffee. "Marcus tried. He used to leave copies ofMeditationslying around when I was a teenager. Thought maybe philosophy would beat the fight out of me."
Alex's whole face lit up. "Marcus Aurelius?"
I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah. Stoicism. Control what you can and endure what you can't. Guess some of it stuck."
His gaze lingered on me—soft, steady, seeing more than I'd meant to show. It made my skin itch.
"You're full of surprises," he said, so quietly I almost missed it over the low hum of the ocean.
I didn't know what to do with how he looked at me—like I was worth figuring out. Like he didn't only see the scars. He saw the kid who stayed indoors reading ancient battle strategies while the rest of the neighborhood threw punches for fun.
I dropped my gaze back to my coffee, my heart thudding too hard in my chest.
"So, tell me more. What brings a history professor to the middle of nowhere?"
The light in his eyes dimmed slightly. "It's a long story."
I nodded, understanding boundaries. "I've got nowhere to be, but keep it to yourself if that's better."
He traced the rim of his mug with one finger. "My wife loved Tahiti. We came here for our tenth anniversary two years ago. She wanted to see every island in the South Pacific."
Wife. The word landed hard.
"She died," he continued, voice unwavering but quiet. "Car accident. Eighteen months ago. I'm here to..." He gestured vaguely toward the water. "Say goodbye, I suppose. Scatter her ashes where she was happiest."
"Jesus. I'm sorry." They were the best words I could muster but still inadequate.
Alex shrugged. "Thank you."
As we sat in silence, I tried to reconcile the man from last night—the one who'd boldly explored my body—with the grieving husband sitting across from me now.
"And you? What do you do when you're not vacationing in paradise?"
My gut twisted. This was the moment that always changed things. It made no sense to be evasive. "I'm with Seattle PD. SWAT."
I watched his expression shift, subtle but unmistakable: eyebrows rising slightly, jaw tensing, and the flicker of reassessment in his gaze. I'd seen it a thousand times. People either pulled away or leaned in too close, fascinated by the danger, the badge, and the idea of what I did rather than who I was.
"That explains a lot." His tone was carefully neutral.
"Does it?"
"The way you moved last night. You were constantly aware of everything around you. And the scars." He touched his ribs, mirroring where an old knife wound traced my left side.
"Hazard of the job."
"That must be intense. The work, I mean."
I searched his face for disgust or fetishizing interest. I didn't see either of those; it was only a measured curiosity that felt oddly like respect.
"It can be." I hedged while I tried to sort out Alex's opinion.
