He set his pencil down but kept his eyes fixed on the diagram. A muscle in his neck twitched.
"About last night," I continued, not letting him deflect this time. "I know you're thinking it was some kind of mistake. Heat of the moment, whatever."
"We got carried away." His voice was flat. "Island air makes people do things they wouldn't normally consider."
"Island air? Seriously? Stop." I leaned forward, forcing him to look at me or contort himself to avoid eye contact. "You can't reduce this to something about barometric pressure. I didn't get carried away. I meant every second of it."
His pencil rolled across the table's scarred surface, coming to rest against the sugar bowl. Still, he wouldn't meet my gaze.
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying. I wanted you. I want you now. And pretending otherwise isn't going to make that go away."
Wes drummed his fingers on the table. "It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because..." He finally looked up. "Because you make it hard to stay locked down."
I listened, and my pulse started to quicken.
"That makes me happy. Let it be hard."
"Eric—" He started to say something, but the words failed him.
"I'm not going anywhere, Wes. Not if you don't want me to." I reached across the table, covering his hand with mine. "I'm here right now because I want to be here. With you."
He stared down at our joined hands like he was trying to solve a puzzle with too many pieces.
"You don't understand what you're signing up for."
"Then tell me."
He pulled his thumb from under my fingers and rubbed my knuckles. "I'm not easy, Eric. I don't do relationships or public declarations or any of the things normal people expect. I've been alone so long I've forgotten how to make room for anyone else."
"I'm not asking you to be someone different. I'm asking you to let me stay long enough to figure out what this is."
Wes lifted our joined hands, studying my fingers like they held answers to questions he didn't know how to ask. When he finally looked at me again, his barriers had lowered just enough to let me see the man who'd whispered my name in the dark.
His voice was so soft I could barely make out the words. "I'm scared of wanting this."
"I know, but maybe that's the best reason for you to try."
Three hours later, I sat on the cottage porch with Dr. Greene's voice crackling through the phone speaker. Her words were sharp and direct.
"Eric, I'm concerned about the direction your research is taking." Papers rustled on her end of the line. "Your latest progress report reads more like a collection of personal anecdotes than academic analysis."
I stood and began pacing on the porch. "The stories matter, Dr. Greene. They're not mere anecdotes—they're data points that reveal how resilience functions at the community level."
"Stories are not data points. Community resilience needs quantifiable indicators—employment statistics, infrastructure assessments, and climate adaptation metrics. We need measurable outcomes, not narrative flourishes."
Through the screen door behind me, I heard Wes moving around the kitchen, the soft clink of dishes being washedand arranged. He'd finally abandoned the thermostat project, declaring it "good enough for government work."
I continued to protest. "But those statistics don't capture why people choose to stay. Mrs. Pelletier could have moved to Portland after the fishing collapse. The Johnsons could have sold their land to developers. What made them dig in instead of giving up? A flat number won't tell you."
"That's sociology, not coastal management research."
"No, it's both." I stood and walked to the porch railing, where wind chimes made from old fishing lines and sea glass caught the breeze. "Resilience isn't only about seawalls and evacuation routes. It's about why someone like Wes Hunter shows up daily to repair solar panels and clear storm debris when he could have walked away sixteen years ago."
