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"So he borrows this ancient skateboard from somewhere—I think it belonged to his cousin's ex-boyfriend—and decides he's going to practice in secret until he can casually glide down the hall at school like some kind of Tony Hawk superhero."

Beside me, Wes listened closely.

"First attempt," Ziggy continued, "Eric pushes off, travels maybe three feet, and then the skateboard shoots out from under him like it's been launched from a catapult. He goes down hard and scrapes both knees."

"It drew blood," I added helplessly.

"Real blood, but here's the thing—instead of giving up like any reasonable person, Eric gets back on that death trap every day after school for two weeks. He falls down, gets up, and falls down again. I'm following him around like a concerned parent, carrying Band-Aids."

Wes was watching me now instead of the screen with a warm and curious expression.

"Finally, the day arrives. Eric's positioned at the far end of the hallway with his battle-scarred skateboard."

Wes spoke up. "How did it end?"

"Perfectly. Eric glides down the hall like he was born on wheels, executes this little kick-flip thing that probably shouldn't have worked, and stops right where he planned." One of those skater guys looked up. 'Nice moves, Callahan.'"

Wes laughed—not the chuckle he offered to be polite, but honest laughter that made the lines around his eyes crinkle.

He glanced at me. "That sounds exactly like something Eric would do."

I sighed and leaned toward Wes. "The skateboard is probably still in my parents' garage, a monument to my brief career as a teenage daredevil."

Dad spoke up from the background. "We should dig it out when you come home and see if you remember how to stay upright."

Ziggy turned his head toward Dad. "When, not if. I like that optimism, Chief Callahan."

As the conversation flowed between college updates and island stories, I watched something shift in Wes. His responses grew warmer, less guarded. When Kade asked about the lighthouse restoration, Wes smiled while describing the century-old hardware challenges.

Ziggy had a final thought. "I used to think love meant fireworks and poetry, you know? But what really made me stay was Kade handing me tea when I had the flu and still thinking I was worth loving when I hated myself. That's the stuff that matters."

We said our goodbyes with promises to call again soon amid threats from Ziggy to show up uninvited if I didn't bring Wes home for a proper introduction to Mrs. Knickerbocker's legendary hospitality.

When the screen went dark, Wes was quiet for a long moment. His hand had moved during the call, settling on the couch cushion close enough to mine that our pinky fingers were almost touching.

His voice was rough around the edges when he spoke. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

"I know." I gently closed the laptop. "I wanted to."

"Your friends, they care about you. Really care. And your father..." His voice caught slightly. "He didn't have to say those things."

"Dad's been carrying guilt about that night all these years. He's not the kind of man who forgets the people he's helped, even when they disappear. He meant what he said. About it being overdue."

Wes's fingers drummed against his thigh. "I spent so long believing I was the mistake that night. That Derek would be alive if I'd been stronger and smarter, or if I'd somehow..." He shook his head. "Your friends, they look at you like you matter. Like you're worth the effort."

"You matter to me more than I know how to explain."

Instead of waiting for Wes to find reasons to pull away, I moved closer. I touched his cheek, cradling his face in my hand while he held perfectly still.

"Eric—" he started.

I kissed him before he could finish the thought. It wasn't desperate or hungry like our first kiss at the rink or heated like our night under the meteor shower. It was quieter and deeper—a promise wrapped in the gentle pressure of our lips.

I kissed him like I wasn't going anywhere. Like I'd already decided that whatever he'd constructed to protect himself, I would wait outside until he was ready to open the door.

A soft sound escaped him. It was part surprise and part surrender. His hand covered mine where it rested against his cheek.

When our lips separated, he didn't pull away. "I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to let someone stay."

"We'll figure it out." I wrapped my free arm around Wes's waist, pulling him close. "Ziggy likes you."

"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."