"He's protective of you. They all are." Wes paused briefly. "That's... that's what it looks like when someone has family."
"You could have that, too. If you want it."
Wes's thumb rubbed across my knuckles, where my hand still rested against his cheek. His other hand reached over and rested on my thigh. The armor he'd worn since hearing about his aunt finally slipped, revealing the man who'd kissed me under shooting stars and taught me how to splice rope with infinite patience.
He nodded toward the window. "The lighthouse beam will start up soon. It operates all winter. Fifteen seconds on, five seconds off. If you're having trouble sleeping, you can time your heartbeat by it."
I smiled at the practical romance of it—Wes Hunter's version of counting sheep involved maritime navigation aids. "Is that what you do? Time your heartbeat by the lighthouse?"
"Sometimes. Helps when the quiet gets too loud." A few more moments of silence passed. "Eric?"
"Yeah?"
"When your month is up, what happens then?"
I was honest in my response. "I don't know, but I know I don't want to find out what my life feels like without you in it."
Chapter sixteen
Wes
I'd spent the day watching Eric move through the cottage like he belonged there, humming while he organized his research notes, making coffee in my kitchen with the unconscious ease of someone who'd found his place. It terrified me how right it looked.
Aunt Helen's death had shaken something loose inside me, some carefully constructed wall that had kept me functional on Ironhook. I'd finally burned the letter. It was ashes now, but the words echoed:next of kin.I was Derek's cousin and Helen's nephew, and none of them had thought to tell me she was dying.
I'd been exiled so completely that my family's deaths happened without me.
Eric emerged from the guest room carrying his laptop, ready to settle into his evening typing routine and occasional soft laughter at whatever Ziggy texted him. They would be the sounds of someone who had people who loved him and who would notice if he disappeared.
"Eric."
He looked up, those ocean-blue eyes immediately focusing on my face. "Yeah?"
"Want to see something? Up at the cliffs."
"Now?"
I nodded. "Now's good. Before I lose my nerve."
"Time to make hot chocolate? It's a little chilly out there."
"Yeah." I paced the living room for the five minutes it took Eric to mix up a thermos of hot chocolate. When he was ready, I grabbed a blanket, and we headed out the front door.
The path to the high cliffs wound through beach grass that whispered against our legs. Eric walked beside me without pushing for conversation.
My knee protested the climb, sending familiar complaints up through my thigh with each step on the uneven ground. The pain was manageable—it always was—but tonight, it felt like a reminder of everything I'd lost and everything I was afraid to want again.
"Watch your step here." I guided Eric around a section where recent storms had carved the path into loose gravel. "Easier to twist an ankle than you'd think."
When his hand briefly touched my elbow for balance, electricity shot through me. After three weeks of contact, ranging from gentle touches to one night taking each other over the edge, my body still responded like no one had ever touched me before.
The lighthouse was operating for the first night of the season. Its beam swept across us as we climbed—fifteen seconds on, five seconds off—painting everything in alternating silver and shadow.
In the brief moments of illumination, I glimpsed Eric's profile: the determined set of his jaw and the gentle curve of his mouth.
I was about to destroy all of it, about to tell him why he needed to leave before I became someone who disappointed him.
The cliff's edge opened before us like the end of the world. Below, waves crashed against granite with the kind of relentless patience that had carved the shores for millennia. Above, stars scattered across the sky.
