As I watched him check the fuel gauge and adjust something on the control panel, I flexed my fingers, feeling the ghost of his hands guiding mine.
"Dinner's in an hour," he called over the generator's hum.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to be steady if I answered in words. When he disappeared into the cottage, I remained beside the trap, staring at our joint handiwork and trying to decode what had just happened between us.
The cottage felt smaller at night. The lamplight left the corners dark, closing the walls in.
I claimed the couch as my evening workspace, laptop balanced on my knees while I transcribed the day's interviews and tried to make sense of the patterns emerging from my research. The front door opened with its familiar creak, and Wes stepped inside.
Mud caked his boots, and dark stains marked his jeans where he'd knelt in something damp. His shoulders sagged, and he moved like he'd been working since dawn.
Wes hung his jacket on the hook beside mine, and the sight of our coats together—his weathered canvas next to my bright blue fleece—struck me as unexpectedly domestic. At least part of us belonged in the same space, no longer strangers thrown together by circumstance and grant funding.
"Coffee?" I gestured toward the pot I'd made after dinner.
Wes paused in the act of unlacing his boots. "Thanks."
I poured two mugs. When I handed him his coffee, our fingers brushed briefly.
He settled into the armchair across from me, cradling the mug in both hands. In the lamplight, his features softened, and the perpetual tension around his eyes eased.
He surprised me with a question. "How'd the interviews go?"
"Good. Interesting." I saved my document and closed the laptop, giving him my full attention. "The Pelletiers have been here through everything—fishing collapse, population exodus, and tourism pivot. They've watched their whole world change and found ways to adapt without losing who they are."
"Tourism pivot." Wes snorted softly. "Is that what you're calling it?"
"What term would you use?"
He was quiet for a moment, staring into his coffee. "Survival, or—maybe desperation."
I continued my comments. "The same themes keep popping up. Resilience, reinvention, and holding on while letting go. It's how the communities bend without breaking."
Wes spoke through gritted teeth. "People love that word—resilient. It makes it sound noble instead of desperate. Like they are making a philosophical statement by staying instead of having nowhere else to go."
The edge caught me off guard. I'd been thinking of resilience as a strength. It was something to admire and study. Wes made it sound almost foolhardy.
"What about you?" I asked gently. "You seem like someone who had to be resilient."
His jaw clenched. He drained his coffee in three quick swallows and stood.
"Getting late."
Wes disappeared down the hallway toward his room, leaving me alone with the dying lamplight. I sat there for a while longer, trying to understand the expression that crossed his face when I asked about his resilience.
Later, as I moved around the kitchen cleaning our mugs, I noticed his work gloves drying by the wood stove. They lay on the hearth, fingers spread to catch the heat.
When I finally headed toward my room, I passed through the narrow kitchen to reach the hallway. As I squeezed between the counter and the table, Wes emerged from his bedroom, probably heading for the bathroom.
The space was too tight for two people to pass comfortably. We both stopped, facing each other in the confined area.
He'd changed out of his work clothes into clean jeans and a soft flannel shirt, and the scent of soap surrounded him.
"Sorry." I started to step back.
"You're fine." He moved forward when I stepped aside, and our shoulders brushed. The contact was brief and accidental, but neither of us immediately pulled away.
We stood there in the narrow space for a heartbeat, close enough that I saw pale flecks of green in his gray eyes. He briefly looked at my mouth and then back up.
