Page 25 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

MAREN

The Black Lantern empties out slowly tonight, regulars settling tabs and making their way into the dark.

I count the till twice, wipe down the bar one last time, and lock up.

The walk home through the trees usually helps me decompress from a shift, but tonight my mind keeps circling back to Calvin and the strange distance that’s grown between us these past few days.

The path through the Douglas firs is familiar even in darkness.

I know every root that rises up to catch your toe, every spot where the gravel turns to dirt, every turn where you can catch a glimpse of the Sound through the branches.

My feet ache in my boots and my shoulders are tight from carrying trays, and all I want is to fall into bed with the romance novel Eleanor lent me last week.

When I reach my cabin and climb the porch steps, I notice something on the little wooden table beside my door.

A package wrapped in dark blue paper, almost black in the porch light.

I pick it up, surprised by the weight of it.

A book, definitely, from the shape and heft.

There’s a small envelope tucked under the twine that holds it closed, my name written across the front.

I unlock my door and step inside, holding the package carefully in my hands. Laila lifts her head from her dog bed in the corner, tail giving a few halfhearted thumps of greeting before she settles back into sleep.

“That sleepy, huh? Not even curious?” I ask Laila as I kick off my boots by the door. She sighs in response, already going back to whatever dream dogs have.

I sit cross-legged on my bed with the package in my lap and open the envelope first. Inside, a small card:

For you.

- C

The wrapping paper is beautiful, the expensive kind with weight to it, and someone has tied it with rough twine instead of ribbon.

I untie it slowly, not wanting to tear the paper.

Inside is a book, old from the look of the binding, the particular smell of aged paper rising up.

When I turn it over to see the cover, my heart stops completely.

The Burned Hour, by Elias Shaw.

This is one of the books that saved me when I was twenty and drowning.

The one I’ve read so many times my paperback copy literally fell apart, pages coming loose from the spine until I had to rubber band it together.

But this copy is different. I open it with careful hands and find the copyright page.

First edition. First printing. My hands start to shake because I know what these cost. I’ve looked them up online, dreaming of someday owning one.

The title page makes my breath catch. There’s Shaw’s actual signature in faded brown ink from decades ago.

There’s more beneath the book. A notebook, linen-covered, the kind of notebook that makes you want to write something worthy of its pages.

The paper inside is thick and cream-colored, with faint lines that won’t interfere with the words.

A fountain pen is clipped to the spine, silver and perfectly balanced when I pick it up.

Inside the notebook’s front cover is another note from Calvin: For all the stories you have in you. It’s time to write your own.

I sit there holding them. Not just any book but this specific one that held me together when I thought I might fall apart. Not just any notebook but one that feels like possibility. The tears come steady and quiet, and I don’t try to stop them.

Calvin did this. Went somewhere to find a first edition Shaw that must have cost hundreds of dollars. Chose this specific notebook, this specific pen. Left them for me to find like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.

I run my fingers over the notebook’s linen cover, feeling the texture of it, the weight of all those blank pages.

My fingers trace where the tattoo sits against my ribs, his words permanently etched there, reminding me of all the reasons this is dangerous. He doesn’t do relationships. He’s leaving. I’m already in too deep.

But sitting here with these gifts in my lap, I can’t make myself care about being sensible.

I wake with the Shaw edition still on my nightstand, morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment I just lie there, running my finger along the book’s spine, still not quite believing it’s real.

Laila stretches at the foot of my bed, yawning wide before padding over to nose my hand.

“Morning, girl.” I scratch behind her ears. “Want to go find Calvin?”

She wags in response, already heading for the door.

I pull on jeans and the first sweater I find, let Laila out for a quick bathroom break, then follow the sound of hammering toward the main house. The morning is gray and cool, clouds heavy over the Sound.

I find him in the sunroom, but something’s wrong. He’s not working with his usual steady rhythm. Instead, he’s attacking the boards with hard, angry strikes that make the whole frame shake.

“Hi,” I say from the doorway of the sunroom.

He turns and when he sees me, his expression shifts through several things at once. Happiness, maybe. And something else that looks like dread.

“Maren.” He sets the hammer down, wipes his hands on his jeans. “The book, did you—”

“Calvin, they’re perfect.” The words come out in a rush. “The Shaw edition, the notebook, the pen. I don’t even know what to say except thank you. It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.”

He looks at me with such tenderness that my breath catches. “You deserved something beautiful.”

We stand there in the half-finished room, morning light coming through the gaps in the walls, and I want to cross the space between us. Want to touch his face, tell him what this means. But his whole body is strung tight, braced for something.

“Maren, I need to tell you something.”

My stomach drops. “What’s wrong?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s about your cabin. The sale.” His voice is rough. “I talked to Dominic yesterday. The buyers want the whole property clear. The understanding you had with Susan about staying no matter what... they won’t honor it.”

I stand there trying to process this. “But Susan promised. We had an agreement. Whatever happened with the estate, my cabin would be safe.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been here ten years.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. I sound like a kid whining about fairness, as if the world cares what Susan promised me.

“I know.” He looks miserable.

The anger builds slowly, spreading through my body. Not at Calvin, who clearly hates having to tell me this. But at Dominic for keeping this secret. At buyers who don’t care about the lives they’re disrupting.

“When?” I ask.

“After the memorial. You’ll get notice, but not long.”

My mind races through the reality of this. The rental market here is basically nonexistent. The few places that come up are priced for Seattle people working remotely, not locals working service jobs.

“I’ll figure this out,” Calvin says, stepping toward me. “I’ll fight this, Maren. I’ll—”

“This isn’t your fight.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. “Calvin, I’ve been taking care of myself since I was seventeen. I don’t need you to save me.”

Something flashes across his face, hurt maybe, but he covers it quickly. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“I know.” I soften because I do know. He wants to help, wants to fix this, wants to be the guy who makes everything okay.

But he’s leaving soon, back to his real life, and I’ll still be here dealing with whatever solution he patches together.

“I know you want to help. But this is my life, my problem to solve.”

“Maren—”

“Thank you for the book,” I say, already backing toward the door because if I stay, I might cry or scream or let him make promises we both know he can’t keep. “They’re perfect. You’re—” I stop because finishing that sentence would reveal too much. “I need to go.”

I leave before he can respond, Laila trotting behind me, confused by our sudden departure.

The morning is still cool and gray, but I can see breaks in the clouds toward the west, hints of blue that promise the sun will burn through later.

At least the weather might improve, even if everything else is falling apart.

The beach is mostly empty in the early afternoon, just a couple walking hand in hand far down the shoreline, looking like a postcard for happiness I can’t imagine having.

The sun has finally broken through this morning’s clouds, turning the Sound into shifting patterns of blue and silver.

After the conversation with Calvin this morning, I needed to move, to think, to be somewhere that wasn’t those four walls that apparently aren’t even mine anymore.

Laila deserved this too. She’s been patient through my long shifts and my recent moodiness, and the way she tears after the tennis ball now, sand flying, ears flapping in pure joy, makes the tension in my body loosen slightly for the first time since Calvin told me about the sale.

I’ve been out here an hour maybe, sitting on this sun-bleached driftwood log that’s been my thinking spot for years, the notebook Calvin gave me balanced on my knees.

I’ve written exactly one line and spent the rest of the time staring at the water, trying to make sense of everything.

The gift. The eviction. The way Calvin looked at me this morning, like he wanted to fight the world for me.

“Found you.”

I look up to see Lark picking her way down the beach path, favoring her wrapped ankle slightly but moving better than she has all week. She’s carrying her beach bag, the one with the ridiculous flamingo pattern she bought at Pike Place Market last summer.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.