It struck me then—this wasn't a reunion. It was a passing of the torch. Only nobody had passed it. It had waited for Wes to return.
All remaining tension dissolved. Silas laughed openly, and Rory bit his lip to maintain his professional demeanor. Kade grinned at the spectacle of the tiny woman effortlessly bulldozing through Wes's carefully constructed defenses.
A little girl, maybe seven, broke away from her father and started skating directly toward our group. She was moving toofast, arms windmilling, panic growing in her eyes. Without hesitation, Wes glided forward and caught her.
"Easy there, speed demon." He steadied her. "Let's get you back to your dad."
I watched him guide her across the ice, patient and sure. This was who he'd been before the world convinced him otherwise. It was who still he was underneath.
Wes and I drifted to the boards and watched the rink around us. We watched kids carving wobbly figure-eights while their parents offered encouragement from the sidelines. Teenagers attempted tricks with ambition that sometimes exceeded their abilities, and Brooks demonstrated a drill while Rory scribbled notes on the clipboard.
Wes watched it all with wonder in his eyes. "Feels almost normal."
"You're going to say yes."
Wes turned his head toward me. "To what?"
"The coaching thing. You're going to help them with the youth program."
He was quiet as he watched more skaters. "Maybe," Wes said. His voice was soft but sure. "It feels like something I could try... without breaking anything important."
Around us, the rink pulsed with life—kids tumbling and getting back up, blades sketching wild loops into clean ice, and a father laughing as his daughter wobbled into his arms.
I turned to Wes just in time to catch the look on his face. It wasn't only joy. It was awe—like he'd found something he hadn't realized he'd lost.
And in that moment, I didn't have to wonder whether he'd say yes.
He already had.
Chapter twenty
Wes
Choppy water slapped against the ferry's hull in irregular bursts, sending salt spray across the deck. We were on our way back to Ironhook. I hadn't quite processed what happened in Whistleport but was smiling.
Eric stood beside me, one shoulder pressed against mine as my—our—rocky island approached. The wind nearly obscured his contemplative voice. "Feels different coming back this time."
I agreed. The island looked the same—granite cliffs with a scruff of scrub pine and the lighthouse standing sentinel on its rocky perch, but something had changed. Ironhook wasn't merely my refuge anymore. It was where I was living—for now—with Eric.
"Home," he whispered.
The ferry bumped against the dock pilings with a hollow thump that vibrated through the deck planks. I shouldered my overnight bag and waited for the handful of other passengers to gather their belongings.
We walked up the dock side by side, our boots thumping against the wood planks. The harbor smelled like diesel fuel, overlaid with the green scent of seaweed drying on the rocks.
The path to the cottage wound through brittle beach grass, browned by the hard frosts of October. The cottage soon appeared, its windows dark and patiently awaiting our return.
Still, Eric was right. It felt different.
I climbed the porch steps ahead of him, fishing keys from my jacket pocket. The screen door protested with its usual squeal of hinges. When I pushed open the main door, the cottage exhaled the familiar scents of wood smoke and coffee grounds.
I held the door open and watched him step inside.
He didn't pause in the doorway or look around like a visitor getting reoriented. He simply walked in, dropped the bags beside the kitchen table, and started lighting the oil lamps with unconscious ease.
When he glanced over and caught me staring, his mouth curved into a gentle smile. "What?"
I stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind me. "Nothing. Just... you look like you belong here."
