"Sorry," he whispered.
I nodded and sprinkled salt over my eggs. The electricity that had hummed between us all morning eased, leaving behind the familiar weight of things unsaid.
My phone buzzed against the wooden table, sharp enough to rattle my water glass. Ziggy's name lit up the screen. When it buzzed again, Wes glanced up from his eggs and nodded toward the device.
Ziggy:How's island life?
I glanced across the table at Wes, who was methodically working through his eggs while he gripped his coffee mug with his free hand.
Eric:Might extend my stay. Research is... intensive.
When the three dots immediately appeared, I thought I could hear the wheels turning in Ziggy's head through the screen.
Ziggy:Research, right. Kade thinks you found someone. Mom's making extra chili just in case you bring a mysterious island boy home.
The words were a direct hit. I looked up at Wes again—really looked at him. I tried to picture him in Mrs. Knickerbocker's kitchen, surrounded by the warm chaos of a family gathering.
I imagined him perched awkwardly on one of her mismatched dining chairs, accepting chili, while Ziggy peppered him with questions and his mom fussed over cornbread portions. The image should have been absurd—Wes with his careful silences thrown into that warm chaos—but instead of laughing, I ached for it.
I could see him there, somehow. Still grounded, still himself, but maybe allowing himself to be cared for in the gentle, overwhelming way that was a Knickerbocker specialty.
Maybe he'd even smile at one of Mr. Knickerbocker's terrible dad jokes or let Kade draw him into a conversation about whatever poetry collection was currently consuming their thoughts.
The fantasy was perfect inside my head.
But Wes was thirty-five. He'd spent more than half my lifetime piling bricks that kept the world at arm's length. What would he want with all that warmth and noise? What would he want with the kind of love that came with obligations and expectations and the constant pressure to be present for other people's joy?
What would he want with me once the novelty wore off and I became another person asking him to be something other than what he'd chosen to become?
My phone buzzed again.
Ziggy:You still there, E?
I set the phone face-down on the table without responding.
"Everything okay?" Wes's voice was neutral in tone.
"Yeah. Just Ziggy being Ziggy." I managed what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "He's convinced I'm hiding some grand romance from him."
"Are you?"
The question hung between us like a bridge neither of us was sure we were ready to cross. I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again, suddenly aware that whatever I said next would matter in ways I couldn't predict.
Wes's gaze dipped for a moment—not away, but inward, like he was weighing his answer and didn't like what he found. His fingers drummed once against the side of his mug.
"You don't have to tell me," he said quietly. "Not if it's going to cost you something."
Before I could find the best words for a reply, Wes was already pushing back from the table.
He gathered his plate and fork in one hand, his coffee mug in the other, and headed for the sink. I watched him rinse his dishes. Water drummed against the ceramic mug while he scrubbed egg residue with more attention than the task required.
"Storm coming tomorrow." His words sounded as flat as a weather report. "If you want the old trail marked before then, we should head out after lunch."
The shift was so abrupt it left me breathless. One moment, we balanced on the edge of something real, and the next, we returned to maintenance schedules and practical concerns. Back to the careful routine that had governed Wes's days long before I'd arrived and would continue long after I left.
"Sure, I'll grab my gear."
Wes made a soft grunt that could have meant anything—acknowledgment, agreement, or complete indifference. He hung the dish towel on its designated hook with mathematical precision, every fold exactly where it belonged.
