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Chapter twenty-four

Wes

T he wind had dropped by the time we reached the clearing. Just a light breeze swept over the rocks and the water beyond. The island appeared to be holding its breath.

We didn't say much on the walk out. Didn't need to.

Eric had pulled on his thickest sweater, the collar a little stretched, sleeves half-shoved up his forearms. His flashlight bounced against his thigh, unused—the moonlight was enough.

I carried a half-full thermos of what had once been decent coffee.

The broad granite shelf was still there, a stubborn landmark waiting. We stood on it facing the open sky.

Eric tilted his face upward. "Still here," he said.

"Ironhook?"

"The Coffee Pot," he murmured.

I followed his gaze. The stars were scattered wide above us, with no haze and no clouds. He raised one arm and extended his index finger.

"There's the handle." He traced a crooked arc in the air. "Spout's over there, tilted just so. The lid's the little one that flickers."

I squinted. "That's barely a triangle."

"It's a stretch," he admitted. "But it pours straight down onto the North Pole—right there." He gestured low toward the horizon. "Caffeine-hungry polar bears line up and wait their turn. It's the only thing that gets them through the dark season."

I snorted. "They drink it black, don't they."

"Scalding. No cream, no sugar. Barbaric creatures." Eric paused. "I used to do this with Dad. Or tried to. He always looked but never really saw it. Said stars were only burning gas."

He turned toward me. His crooked grin shone even in the dark. I wanted to tell him how his ridiculous stories relaxed me when I feared things might fall apart. Instead, I poured the last of our coffee into the thermos cap and handed it over without a word.

Eric raised it in a silent toast toward our private constellation. "Here's to the night shift."

He took a sip and passed it back. The coffee was lukewarm and tasted faintly metallic, but I drank it anyway.

Eric pointed at the stars again.

"Now watch," he said. "This part's new."

He swirled his finger upward from the spout of the imaginary pot in a loose, curling pattern.

"Steam," he explained. "Rising like thoughts you can't hold onto. Changes shape every time you look."

I watched his hand more than the stars. He executed gentle and precise movements like he was coaxing the sky into revealing something secret.

"You really believe all that?" I asked.

He let his hand drop to his side. "No, but I like making things up when the world is almost too much to bear."

I nodded, looking back up. The spout. The steam. It was ridiculous and perfect.

A gust came in from the ocean—cool, briny, and sharp with the smell of kelp. Eric stepped closer. Not dramatically. Just close enough for his jacket to brush mine.

He didn't ask this time. Just leaned in.

The kiss was quiet—no buildup, no fireworks. It was the kind of kiss that happens when you both know you're already exactly where you want to be. His lips were soft and familiar. I let the moment breathe.

When we pulled apart, neither of us stepped back. I still tasted the faint bitterness of coffee on his lips and felt the soft scratch of his day-old stubble against my chin.

He looked back up. "Still think it needs a saucer?"

"Absolutely," I said.

That made him laugh. It wasn't a polite chuckle. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and he leaned against my side, gentle and relaxed.

We stood like that for a while longer—two lone figures under a sky that went on forever, sharing stories about constellations only we could see.

We lingered until the cold started to find the seams in our clothes. Not brutally. Just a slow, needling reminder that comfort doesn't last forever if you stand still too long.

Eric shivered slightly against my side. He didn't say anything about heading back. He only bumped my arm with his and tilted his head toward the trail. I nodded.

We walked without speaking, boots careful on the uneven ground, breath curling up between us. Halfway back, Eric stopped. I turned, expecting him to point out some night bird or mention the moon.

Instead, he was looking directly at me.

"What?" I asked.

"You're humming."

I wasn't. Was I? Then, I heard it—low, unconscious, some half-remembered tune drifting up from my chest. I couldn't remember the last time I'd hummed anything.

Eric grinned. "That's new."

I cleared my throat, embarrassed. He fell into step beside me, closer this time, and I didn't stop humming.

When the trees opened up, and the cottage came into view, I paused at the edge of the clearing. The windows glowed faintly, and the porch light cast long shadows down the steps.

Eric stopped beside me. I looked back once—only for a second. I couldn't see the Coffee Pot anymore. It was just a dark sky, thick with stars, all burning exactly the same way they had before we arrived. And yet…

"I used to think silence meant something was missing," I said. "Like it was a placeholder for what never arrived."

Eric didn't answer. He waited for me to continue.

"But now?" I looked at him. "Now it feels like something's finally landed."

He reached for my hand. Not dramatically or possessively. Just there. Steady.

And in that moment, Ironhook's silence wasn't emptiness anymore. It was the sound of home.