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Chapter thirteen

Eric

T he scents of coffee grounds and metal polish pulled me from sleep. My body remembered before my mind caught up—the warmth of his skin against my skin.

I stretched beneath the sheet, muscles pleasantly sore in places. The space beside me held only the impression of where Wes had been, the pillow still dented from his head.

From somewhere else in the cottage came the metallic scrape of tools against cast iron, punctuated by occasional muttered commentary. I pulled on yesterday's jeans and padded toward the kitchen.

I found Wes crouched beside the stove, torso bare. A collection of small parts lay arranged on a dish towel—screws, gaskets, and what looked like the guts of the pilot light assembly.

"Morning." I kept my voice soft, testing his mood.

"Pilot light's been acting up." He didn't turn around. "Figured I'd better fix it before it decides to quit completely."

I moved closer. "Need help?"

"Got it."

I leaned against the counter. "Coffee smells good."

"Made it early. Might be strong."

"I like it strong."

He gestured toward the tool collection without looking at me. "Hand me that Phillips head screwdriver."

I passed it to him, letting our fingers tangle around the handle. His breath caught—just barely, but I heard it. "About last night—"

"Last night was..." He turned around briefly. "Last night was good."

Good. I searched his profile for more, but he was already turning back to the stove's innards, shoulders squared against whatever conversation he thought I was trying to start.

It was the word you'd use when you shared a decent meal. It didn't begin to cover having done something that made the cottage feel less like a place I was visiting and more like somewhere I belonged.

An hour later, I walked the rocky beach path with my phone pressed to my ear. I needed distance from the cottage and Wes's vigilant avoidance of eye contact.

Ziggy picked up on the second ring. "Took you long enough."

"What do you mean?" I kicked at a piece of driftwood, sending it skittering across wet sand.

"I mean, I've been waiting for this call since you texted me about intensive research." I knew by the tone of his voice he'd already figured out most of what I could tell him. "So. Spill."

I watched the ocean waves chase themselves up the shore. "We kissed. Actually, more than kissed."

"Holy shit, Eric."

"And now he's acting like it was some kind of weather event. Like a temporary atmospheric disturbance."

Ziggy laughed. "You're gone. Completely gone. I haven't heard you this tangled since you fell for Silas's guest barista who spoke Icelandic and made coffee art that looked like tiny glaciers."

I grumbled. "That was different." I stopped walking and let the wind whip salt spray across my face. "This is... God, Ziggy, I don't know what this is."

"Tell me everything. And I mean everything. What happened?"

I shared it all. I told him about the meteor showers and bourbon-laced hot chocolate. I described Wes's hands exploring my body.

"And this morning?"

I sighed heavily. "This morning, he's fixing the stove like his life depends on it and calling last night good in the same tone he'd use to describe adequate weather."

"Ah, shit." Ziggy was quiet for a second. "Okay, look—this guy sounds like he's been living in a cave or whatever. You can't just... I mean, you had one amazing night, but that doesn't mean he's gonna wake up all fixed, you know?"

I picked up a smooth stone and hurled it toward the waves. It disappeared with only a tiny splash. "So what am I supposed to do? Pretend it didn't matter?"

"Hell no, but maybe give him room to catch up with what happened. Some people are just... weird about good stuff happening. Like they think it's gonna disappear or whatever."

A seal bobbed in the distance, dark head barely visible above the swells. I watched it disappear and surface again.

"What if he decides it was a mistake?"

"What if he doesn't?" Ziggy shot back. "Dude, I've known you since we were like eight, and you made me help you catch that injured seagull because you couldn't just leave it there. You don't fall for random people. So if you're this gone over him, he's gotta be worth it."

"I'm scared I'm going to fuck it up and push too hard or not hard enough."

"Or maybe just... I don't know, trust that he wanted you last night. Like, that was real, even if he's being weird about it now. Some people are just better in the dark, you know?" He chuckled. "Kade is awesome in the dark."

I thought about Wes's hands on my skin, how he'd touched me like I was something precious that might break.

"How long do I wait?"

"However long, I guess. But don't just sit there like a sad puppy, okay? Show him you're not going anywhere. Like, make it super obvious this isn't just because you're stuck on an island together or whatever. Prove you actually want him."

A gull landed near my feet, studying me with one bright eye before deciding I wasn't worth investigating. It lifted off with a dismissive flap, already focused on more promising prospects down the shore.

"Thanks, Zig."

"Anytime. And Eric? Call me when something happens. Good or bad. I want details."

I ended the call and stood there for a while longer, watching the waves tug at the shore. Somewhere behind me, the cottage waited with its practiced silences and the man loading all his concentration onto the stove to avoid focusing on me.

Prove you actually want him.

I considered all of Ziggy's advice as I walked back.

When I reached the cottage, Wes had progressed from the pilot light to a wiring diagram spread across the kitchen table.

He'd put his shirt back on, but it hung unbuttoned, revealing the hollow of his throat where I'd pressed my lips the night before.

"Still at it?" I settled into the chair across from him.

"Thermostat's been reading wrong. Off by maybe ten degrees." He didn't look up from the paper. "Need to trace the connections and figure out where the signal's getting lost."

I watched him follow wire paths with his finger, jaw working like he was grinding something between his teeth.

"Wes."

"This is important, Eric. If the heat goes out during a nor'easter—"

"Look at me."

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 washed and 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."