I could write my thesis from the mainland and synthesize my interviews into neat academic paragraphs that would satisfy Dr. Greene's committee. The report could reduce Ironhook Island to data points, filing away what had happened between Wes and me as fieldwork that had gotten too personal.
The thought lasted as long as it took him to glance my way with his gray eyes. In that microsecond, I saw something beyond the barriers. Something that looked like panic.
He was scared I'd leave.
Wes wasn't building barricades to keep me out—he was bracing for the impact of my inevitable departure. His exile on Ironhook had taught him that people left, and caring about them only made the exit wounds deeper.
I stayed put in my kitchen chair and decided I'd either prove him wrong or break us both. I wasn't going anywhere.
By late morning, I'd transformed the guest room into a war room of scattered research notes and half-formed theories. My laptop sat perched on the dresser, its screen reflecting the organized chaos of a mind trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces. Empty coffee mugs crowded the windowsill.
My phone buzzed—three new messages from Ziggy, each a small lifeline thrown across twenty miles of ocean.
Ziggy:How's the mysterious island romance? Kade wants details.
Ziggy:Also, Mom made too much chili again. She's convinced you're bringing someone home.
Ziggy:E? You've gone radio silent. That's either really good or really bad.
I stared at the messages, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How did you explain that you'd found something extraordinary and now had to watch it slip away because the person you'd fallen for had been trained by loss to expect disappointment?
I heard Wes moving around outside the cottage—the scrape of his boots against wooden steps and the metallic clang of tools being gathered for whatever maintenance project had captured his attention. He'd been outside for an hour, clearing storm debris that probably didn't need clearing, finding reasons to avoid the space we shared indoors.
An idea formed in my head. I started typing before my brain could talk me out of it.
Eric:Can you and Kade do a quick video call today? Need a favor.
The response came so fast that I wondered whether Ziggy had been sitting with his phone in his hand.
Ziggy:Always. What kind of favor? The legal kind or the emotional support kind?
Eric:The kind where you remind someone that not everyone leaves.
The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times before Ziggy's response arrived.
Ziggy:Ah. The good kind of favor. Give me an hour to coordinate with Kade. And E? Whatever you're planning, it's going to work.
I set the phone aside. Wes had perfected his isolation, convincing himself that solitude was safer than risking connection. Still, I'd seen how he'd relaxed during our conversations about Ziggy and listened with genuine interest when I'd shared stories about home.
Maybe what he needed wasn't another person trying to fix him but proof that some people chose to stay simply because they wanted to. That love could exist without conditions or expiration dates.
I closed my laptop and moved to the window, watching Wes work. His movements were efficient but restless.
When he finally headed back toward the cottage, tool bag slung over his shoulder, I knew my timing had to be perfect. This wouldn't work if it felt like an ambush or an intervention. It had to be what it was—an invitation to remember that the world was bigger than his isolation.
I opened my laptop again and checked the time. Ziggy had given me the green light, and I had one more hour to figure out how to crack the shell around Wes Hunter's heart without breaking what was inside.
The cottage's living room had never been designed for video conferences. I'd pushed the wooden table closer to the couch, angling my laptop so the camera saw both seats but avoided thestack of research books that made the space look like a graduate student's fever dream.
The afternoon had settled into that golden hour, where everything looked softer around the edges. Light filtered through salt-stained windows to paint the room in shades of honey and amber.
Wes emerged from the kitchen carrying two mugs of fresh coffee. "So," I said, accepting the coffee and patting the couch cushion beside me, "want to say hi to some of my friends?"
"Friends?"
"Ziggy and Kade. They're curious about the mysterious island caretaker who's been corrupting their innocent research buddy." I opened the laptop. "Plus, I thought you might like to meet the people who know how to make me laugh."
The video call software took its sweet time connecting, pixels dancing across the screen in frustrating patterns while an electronic melody played on repeat. Wes settled beside me, tense and ready to bolt if necessary.
