Page 15

not done with you yet

KIERAN

I hadn’t planned on staying in South Havens this long, none of us had, but the next leg of the tour doesn’t start for another week, and I’m not exactly rushing to leave.

Something about this city has its grip on us. Like it wrapped its fingers around our wrists and whispered, just stay a little longer .

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

But the truth? I know exactly why I’m still here.

It’s been just over a week since the gig. Since I saw her in the crowd, saw the ring, and heard about her daughter. And I still can’t get her out of my head.

I know I’ve got no right to want anything from her. Not even her time. Call me selfish. But I do. I just want to know her again, even if it means biting my tongue and pushing back every instinct to reach for more than she’s able to give.

Every morning, I escape to a beach I found on the edge of the city. This quiet stretch in Windrush Hollow, tucked away from everything.

I hit the sand and don’t stop until my thoughts begin to unravel, blurred into the rhythm of my breath and the slap of my feet against the earth.

I learned the hard way that running on dry sand is absolute hell.

It’s like nature’s version of a treadmill—except it’s laughing at you the whole time.

So now I stick to the shore, where the sand’s firm and wet, the water licking at my shoes with every stride.

The sea air slices clean through the fog in my head, cold and sharp, the kind that wakes you from the inside out.

Waves drag themselves up the beach in a slow, steady rhythm.

Dogs tear past in pure, feral joy, barking at the surf like they’ve got a shot in hell of catching a wave.

A golden retriever is losing its mind over a stick.

I slow at an old stone wall overlooking the beach and drop onto it, chest heaving, muscles burning in that good, spent way. The retriever finally snags its prize, tail wagging like it’s just won the bloody lottery.

I huff a laugh, scrubbing sweat from my face with the hem of my T-shirt.

This place is peaceful. It’s quiet.

It feels like home.

Pulling out my phone, I scroll to Dad’s name. Two rings, and he answers.

“Hey there, son.” His voice is warm and familiar, laced with that quiet concern he always tries—and fails—to hide.

“Hey, old man. How you doing?”

“Oi, less of the old, sprout .” He chuckles. “Still running laps around the lads at the club. They’re convinced I cheat at dominos, though. Honestly. How can you even cheat at dominos?”

I grin, the nickname tugging something loose in my chest. Sprout. Mum started calling me that when I was a kid—short for bean sprout —because I shot up so fast and never quite grew into my limbs. Tall, gangly, all knees and elbows. It stuck.

“And Mrs. Patel?”

“Ah, still at it. Trying to marry me off to her cousin, bless her. Keeps sneaking round with curries and what not ‘for the freezer.’ She thinks I don’t notice.”

“She’ll wear you down eventually.”

“Not bloody likely. Told her I’m too stubborn to be anyone’s project. Besides, I like my peace and quiet.”

There’s a rustle on his end, the clink of a mug. “Got your mother’s old mug here,” he adds, voice softening a little. “Still makes the tea taste better, I swear.”

I smile faintly, pulling my knees up. “You’re a sentimental old sod.”

“Someone’s got to be.” His laughter fades into a calm silence.

I already know what’s coming next.

“So,” he says, gentler now. “How’s the road treating you?”

I exhale, watching the retriever flop into the sand like it had just fought a war and heroically surrendered. “Good. We’re sticking around South Havens a bit longer. Next gig’s not for a while.”

“Unusual for you lot to stay put.”

“We’re trying something new,” I offer. “Taking a breather.”

He makes a noise like he’s not buying it. “And are you taking a breather? Or are you just keeping busy in new ways?”

My jaw tightens. “I’m fine, Dad.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t, kiddo.” His voice softens. “Just… you push yourself too hard. Always have. I know the band means the world to you, but you don’t have to break yourself to prove you’ve earned it.”

The words land harder than I expect them to. I stare out at the horizon, heart thudding behind my ribs. “You think I should stop?”

“No,” he says, firm. “I just think… you’ve made it. You’re living the dream. Just slow down a bit, son. Let yourself feel it.”

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and grip the phone tighter. He doesn’t say things like this often, but when he does, they stick.

He’s been in my corner since day one.

Saved for months to buy my first guitar. Sat through every off-key school concert without complaint. Never once told me to play it safe.

But he knows me. Knows how I chase the high like it’s a badge of honour.

“I hear you,” I mumble.

“I know you do. Just take care of yourself, alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You too, old man.”

He chuckles. “Talk soon.”

I linger on the wall, roll my shoulders, and try to shake off my dad’s words. He means well, he always does, but the thought of slowing down, of standing still long enough for everything to catch up to me makes my skin itch.

Because I don’t really know who I am without the noise. The touring, the rehearsals, the chaos. It’s not just what I do. It’s who I am. Who I’ve been since I was a teenager and desperate to prove I could make something of myself. That it wasn’t just a phase. That I could be someone.

For my dad. For me. For…I don’t even know.

If I slow down now, if I stop for even a minute, I’m scared I’ll look around and realise I’ve built my whole life around a version of myself that only works when everything’s moving. And if I’m not chasing it anymore. Then what?

I push off the wall and stretch—muscles still humming from the run—and head back up the narrow, cobbled street that winds through the village.

The place has this rare charm that’s untouched by modern conveniences. No high-rises or chain shops. Just crooked stone buildings and rusted iron brackets holding weathered signs.

I don’t plan on stopping. But the smell of fresh coffee and warm pastry curls through the air and sucker-punches my willpower.

I slow outside a little café with paint peeling from the windowsills, flowers tumbling from hanging baskets like the place is trying too hard to stay charming, and pulling it off.

Before I can think better of it, my hand pushes open the door. The bell overhead jingles. A soft, familiar chime lands warm in my chest.

Inside, the place whirs. Mismatched tables, scratched-up chairs, yellowing walls plastered with crooked frames. It smells like espresso and sugar, and I breathe it in like oxygen.

At the counter, an older woman in a flour-dusted apron arranges croissants like they’re fine art. Laugh lines etched deep into her cheeks. Her eyes look like they’ve seen every kind of heartbreak and reunion this village has ever had.

“You look like someone in desperate need of caffeine and something sweet,” she says, looking up.

I grin. “That obvious?”

Brenda, according to her name tag, finally looks up, sizing me like she’s trying to place me.

“You’re that musician?” she asks, eyes narrowing slightly. “Had a group of girls in here the other day. Wouldn’t stop talking about some band that played in the city. Kept showing me this lead singer. That you, then?”

I smirk. “Depends. Did they say he was devilishly handsome?”

She lets out a throaty laugh. “Bit of an ego on you, huh?”

“Occupational hazard.”

Brenda slides an almond croissant toward me like a dare. “Go on, then. Tell me that’s not the best thing you’ve had this side of the coast.”

I take a bite. Warm, flaky, rich with marzipan and butter. Unreal. “Okay,” I say, mouth full. “That’s amazing.”

She beams.

Then the door chimes. I don’t look up. Just another customer. Another sleepy regular. But something shifts, something I feel before I see. I glance toward the door. And there she is.

Windblown hair. Some oversized t-shirt that is swallowing her whole. Tiny shorts. Legs for days. Soft in all the ways I remember, except now there’s a tightness to her posture. Like she hadn’t slept in a week, and her thoughts followed her in.

She hasn’t seen me yet. And I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t fucking breathe.

What is the universe doing to me?

The air shifts as I lean away from the counter, suddenly unsure how to play it.

There’s this pull. This ache to know her again. To understand the girl I’ve been thinking about since the second I saw her in that damn hospital.

Ellie steps up to the counter like she’s done it a hundred times, completely unaware I’m here, and Brenda greets her with a smile.

I watch, frozen, as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. And suddenly, the café feels way too small for my chest. I could leave. Slip out the door, pretend I was never here. But before I can think better of it, the words are already out of my mouth.

“Hey, you.”

Her shoulders twitch, barely, but I see it. She turns, slow and uncertain. Our eyes lock, and for a second, we just stare at each other.

“...Kieran?” The way she says it. It’s not just surprise. It means something. Still holds weight.

“In the flesh,” I say, leaning against the counter like I’m not internally spiralling.

She lets out a soft laugh, and it makes my pulse spike. “I—what are you doing here?”

“Same as you, apparently. Coffee. Croissant.” I smile. Keep it light. Pretend my heart’s not trying to punch its way out of my chest.

She glances between me and Brenda, who gives her the most unsubtle talk to him , eyebrow raise I’ve ever seen.

Ellie smiles, despite herself. “I didn’t expect to run into you here,” she says, quieter now.

“Ditto.” I let the smirk fade. “Wouldn’t blame you if it’s not a welcome surprise.”

Her eyes drop, then lift again.

“It’s... unexpected for sure.” A beat. “Kind of funny how we keep ending up in the same places, huh?”

“Yeah.” I nod toward the back of the café. “I’m happy to sit… if you are. No interruptions this time.”