"Yeah, you did." He paused momentarily. "And you're not wrong, but you should know—some stories don't tie up neat. Not this one."
I didn't know what else to say. When we finished the stone placements, we gathered our tools and headed back toward thecottage, following the repaired trail. The kiss from the hockey rink hung unspoken between us, present in every accidental touch and moment of shared concentration.
As the cottage came into view through the trees, I walked slightly behind Wes. He paused beside a massive oak whose trunk showed stress fractures from the recent storms, running his palm along the bark.
"This one will come down in the next big blow." He tilted his head to examine the canopy. "Probably take out a section of trail when it goes."
I watched his fingers trace the fault lines in the bark, reading the tree's weakness. There was something deeply attractive about his competence—how he anticipated problems before they became disasters.
It wasn't only the kiss at the hockey rink that had cracked something open inside me. It was this—watching him exist in perfect harmony with his environment.
"Come on," Wes said, shouldering his pack and continuing toward the cottage. "Need to get these tools cleaned before the salt air gets to them."
I followed, wondering how I would survive the next two weeks without letting him see how completely he'd rearranged my understanding of what I thought I wanted from life.
Chapter ten
Wes
Eric emerged from the guest room carrying his laptop and the silver thermos I'd loaned him, padding across the worn floorboards in wool socks. He'd changed into flannel pajama pants and a thermal shirt that clung to his shoulders. I tried not to notice.
"Hey." He settled into the chair across from me. "You seen this?"
He turned his laptop screen toward me, showing an astronomy website full of technical diagrams. "Draconid meteor shower peaks tonight. Says we should be able to see fifteen to twenty meteors per hour if we can get away from any light pollution."
I glanced up from my weather notes. "And?"
"And we're on an island twenty miles from the nearest streetlight." Eric's eyes lit up. "This is, like, optimal viewing conditions. The article says the best time is after ten PM."
I set my pencil down and examined his features in the lamplight. He was practically vibrating with excitement.
"It's October, Eric. It's cold out there."
"I bought hot chocolate mix in Whistleport, and it will only take minutes to whip it up." He lifted the thermos as evidence in his favor. "It has actual marshmallows. And I can add a splash of something Mrs. Pelletier recommended for October nights."
"I'm tired."
"No, you're not." He grinned. "You're avoiding. Again."
He was alarmingly on target. I'd spent the entire day deliberately wearing myself out with maintenance tasks that didn't strictly need doing—cleaning the generator housing twice, reorganizing the tool shed according to a system that made sense only to me, and hauling enough storm debris to build a small fort. It was all to avoid the restless energy that built inside me every time Eric was nearby.
"Look, I know this is weird." He gestured vaguely between us. "I know you probably think this is some romantic setup or whatever. But honestly? I just saw this thing about meteors, and I thought... when's the next time I'm going to be somewhere with zero light pollution and someone who might actually know where to find Draco?"
His genuine curiosity cut through my defenses more effectively than any romantic overture could have. He wasn't trying to manufacture a moment. He was being himself, finding wonder in things that most people would scroll past without a second thought.
I watched him close the laptop and tuck it under his arm. "Ten minutes," he said, standing and reaching for the wool blanket draped over the back of the couch. "If the meteors are a bust or you decide I'm insane, we'll come back, and I promise I'll stop suggesting outdoor activities for the rest of my stay."
He flashed that stupid, open smile—the one that made him look like he was sharing a secret with the universe and genuinely believed the universe might smile back. "Fine, ten minutes."
Eric's grin widened into something that could have powered the lighthouse for a week. While he bustled around the kitchen to make instant hot chocolate, I pushed the pace of completing my weather log.
Ten minutes later, I followed him toward the cottage door. He had the blanket tucked under one arm and carried the thermos with the opposite hand.
The path to the lighthouse wound through beach grass that brushed against our legs with each step. Eric called back to me. "There's a spot near the light where the ground levels out. It should give us a clear view without the wind trying to relocate us to Nova Scotia."
I knew the place he meant—a natural shelf of granite that jutted from the bluff like a viewing platform some ancient architect had explicitly carved for watching the sky. I'd stood there countless times, but always alone and during daylight hours. The idea of sharing it was like inviting someone into a room I'd never intended for company.
Eric spread the blanket, smoothing out wrinkles and testing the ground underneath for rocks that might dig into our backs later. "Hot chocolate," he announced, unscrewing the thermos cap. Steam rose immediately, along with luscious scents of chocolate and vanilla.
