He'd shed his flannel shirt in favor of a faded gray t-shirt that clung to his back muscles as he worked. Thick leather gloves protected his hands while he fed new rope through the trap's framework.
I settled on the cottage steps with my tablet, organizing the morning's interview notes but finding my attention drawn to the quiet competence of Wes's repairs. There was something mesmerizing about watching someone who knew precisely what they were doing.
Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, and I followed the movement of his shoulders as he worked a particularly stubborn section of mesh back into place. When he reached for his water bottle, tilting his head back to drink, I forced my eyes back to my tablet screen and tried to remember what I'd been writing.
"You writing a story or just watching me work?"
When I looked up again, he was watching me. Warmth bloomed in my cheeks. "Sorry, I was—umm—your process is interesting. The repair work, I mean."
Wes set down his water bottle and removed his gloves, flexing his fingers. "What about it?"
"The traps. They're not yours, are they? I mean, you don't fish commercially."
"Nope." He picked up a length of rope and began working it through his hands, checking for weak spots. "Found them washed up after that storm last week. Owner's probably written them off by now."
"But you're fixing them anyway," I observed.
"Old gear. Still useful if you know what you're doing," Wes said. He paused, studying my face. "Not everything broken has to stay that way."
I knew those words had meaning beyond the traps, but I wasn't sure what it was.
Instead of turning away like he usually did after dropping a cryptic observation, Wes stayed put. He picked up a section of torn mesh, testing the break with his thumb. "You want to see how I do it?"
I didn't expect the question. He hadn't offered to show me anything since I'd arrived. "Sure."
Wes gestured for me to join him beside the trap. When I crouched down, our knees were nearly touching, and I smelled the briny ocean in the distance and the lingering scent of coffee on his breath.
"First thing," he said, selecting a length of new rope from the coil beside him, "is understanding that the break is never really where you think it is."
His fingers traced the torn edge of the mesh, following it back to where the wire had started to fray. "See? Failure starts way before it shows."
I nodded, trying to focus on the lesson instead of how his hands moved with absolute certainty like they'd spent decades learning the correct pressure and angle.
"Now, you don't only patch over the weak spot. That'll fail again in the first storm." He handed me one end of the rope. "Hold this."
The rope was rougher than I'd expected, stiff with salt and age. Wes's fingers brushed mine as he positioned my grip, adjusting the angle with precise movements.
"Feel that tension? That's the weight the whole trap has to carry. If the splice can't hold that, it's useless."
I felt it—the way the rope wanted to slip. Wes's hands covered mine, guiding them through the first twist of the splice.
"Don't fight the rope. Let it find its own way around the break, then lock it in place."
His palms were warm against my knuckles, callused in places. I followed his lead, feeling how the rope wanted to move and learning the rhythm of over-under-through that would make something stronger from something broken.
We worked in complete silence, breathing in sync, our hands moving together with almost choreographed precision. When he guided my fingers through the final lock of the splice, I understood why he'd been so meticulous with the pressure—too loose, and it would slip; too tight, and it would snap under strain.
"Test it," he said.
I pulled against the repair, feeling how the rope held firm and the splice had become the strongest part of the entire section.
"It'll outlast the rest of the trap now." Wes sat back on his heels. His eyes met mine, and momentarily, I saw something unguarded—recognition. It was an acknowledgment that he'd shared something he'd never taught anyone before.
"Why?" I was more direct than I'd planned. "Why show me?"
Wes studied my face. Then he stood, brushing rope fibers off his jeans. "Maybe I'm tired of being the only one who knows how to fix things.
He headed toward the generator housing without another word, leaving me crouched beside the trap with rope burns on my palms and the sudden realization that he'd trusted me with something more valuable than a repair technique.
