She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t walk out either, which is as close to a win as I’m going to get.
We work in silence at first, me tinkering with the old generator while she hands me tools with all the enthusiasm of someone forced into community service.
The generator is a pain in the ass, as always. It’s gas-powered, but the fuel lines tend to clog from condensation freezing in the cold, especially if there’s water in the fuel. I need to add a stabilizer to the gas to prevent this, but I’m not exactly in a position to call for supplies to be brought to us. I explain as I work, showing her how to check for ice buildup around the intake and make sure the air filter isn’t blocked.
“If the fuel line clogs, it’s usually from water freezing in the gas,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag before tossing it over my shoulder. “That’s why we should keep the tank full and use a stabilizer. Keeps the water out, prevents buildup, and saves us from having to deal with this in the dead of night when the wind’s howling, and the temperature’s trying to kill us.”
I remove the spark plug, turning it between my fingers before holding it up to the light. A thin layer of soot darkens the tip, and I scrape at it with my thumb. “If it starts misfiring, check these first. Ice buildup in the cold can foul the plugs, and they’ll need to be cleaned before they completely crap out on us. If they’re really bad, we’ll have to replace them.” I grab a tool and carefully scrape the residue off, showing her how to do it. “It’s finicky, but better than letting the damn thing break down when we need it most.”
She watches me, arms crossed, her expression a mix of irritation and curiosity. Like she doesn’t want to care, but can’t help herself. She doesn’t say much at first, just listens, her lips pressing into that stubborn line I know too well.
But after a while, the questions come. Genuine ones.
“How often do you have to do this?”
“What happens if the power goes out completely?”
“Is there a backup?”
I explain how the generator powers the light and the systems that keep it running when the solar panels can’t do much, like when the weather turns, and the sky is nothing but a solid stretch of grey. I tell her how everything out here relies on maintenance, on knowing the ins and outs of the equipment before something goes wrong.
She absorbs the information, filing it away.
I talk her through the Assembly’s use of the lighthouse as a stopover for their shipments, though she doesn’t like that part.
The wiring inside the control panel gives me trouble, corroded from years of salt air and neglect. The brittle insulation crumbles between my fingers as I work, exposing the tarnished copper beneath. She watches for a moment before stepping in to help, her deft fingers stripping the old wires with practiced precision.
I don’t have to guide her much—she picks up on the process quickly, catching small details I haven’t even pointed out yet. A frayed connection here, a loose terminal there. It’s impressive how fast she catches on.
When I lead her to the lantern room, the air shifts—cooler, crisper, carrying the faint scent of the sea through the aging structure. I gesture toward the massive Fresnel lens, its intricate rings of glass catching the dim light. “This magnifies and focuses the beam,” I say, running a hand along the base. “If it’s dirty or misaligned, it won’t project properly.” I grab a clean cloth and hand it to her. “It needs to be spotless.”
She huffs but takes the cloth, setting straight to work with a focus I wouldn’t have expected. She moves methodically, wiping away smudges and condensation, tilting her head to examine the glass from different angles.
I make adjustments to the light’s alignment while she mutters under her breath, complaining about the tediousness of the task but still refusing to do anything less than a perfect job. And somewhere between her frustrated grumbling, her stubborn insistence that I’m handling something wrong, and the quiet determination in her movements, I get the sense that maybe she doesn’t mind being here.
With me.
“Not bad,” I tell her after she manages to replace a rusted bolt without stripping it.
“Gee, thanks,” she shoots back, but her lips twitch into a smile.
That smile hits me harder every time she gives it to me.
By the time we climb to the top of the lighthouse to inspect the light, the tension between us has thawed into something… easier. The sting of our earlier arguments has faded, softened by quiet cooperation and the salt-laden air pressing around us.
She leans against the railing, her fingers curling around the weathered metal as she stares out at the endless horizon. The ocean stretches before us, its surface rippling beneath the glow of the fading sun.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice soft, distant—like she’s seeing it for the first time.
I’m not looking at the ocean.
“It is,” I agree, though my gaze never leaves her.
The wind tugs at her hair, teasing strands free, sending them whipping across her face. She doesn’t seem to notice, too caught up in whatever thoughts are running through her head. The way she stands—relaxed but alert, like she’s caught between staying and running—the way she looks—calm, curious, alive—it’s almost enough to make me forget the dangers waiting for us beyond this island.
Almost.
Then she turns, catching me staring before I can look away.
