Chapter 5
Chapter five
Isla
The storm rolls in fast, the way they do on this stretch of coast, with no warning, just a sudden darkening of the sky and the first fat drops splattering against the windshield as I pull into the driveway.
I’d barely made it through the morning at the community center when Marjorie came around with her coat already on.
“Power’s flickering downtown, and the forecast says it’s only getting worse. We’re closing early. Go home, Isla. Stay dry.”
I didn’t argue. The roof at the center was still leaking in three places, and my own cottage felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next downpour to prove how badly it needed attention.
So here I am, home before noon, keys jingling in my hand as I hurry up the porch steps.
Rain starts in earnest just as I reach the door, falling in hard, slanting sheets that soak the back of my sweater in seconds.
Inside, the cottage smells of damp wood and the faint cedar I’ve tried to chase away with a candle I lit last night.
I kick off my wet shoes, hang my coat on the hook by the door, and pad into the kitchen to check the buckets.
They’re half-full already, water dripping steadily from the ceiling in lazy plinks.
I sigh, grab a fresh towel from the drawer, and start mopping up the edges where the water has begun to creep across the linoleum.
That’s when I hear the truck.
The engine is low and steady, cutting through the rain as it belongs here. I freeze, towel in hand, heart giving a quick, unnecessary jump. Through the window above the sink, I see the dark pickup pull in behind my sedan. Ronan.
He steps out into the downpour without hesitation, not wearing a rain jacket, just that same faded black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, jeans dark with water almost instantly.
He reaches into the bed of the truck, pulls out a toolbox and a stack of shingles wrapped in plastic, and starts toward the house like the storm is nothing more than an inconvenience.
I open the door before he reaches the porch.
“You’re early,” I say, voice raised over the drumming rain.
He stops at the bottom step, water streaming off the brim of the ball cap he’s pulled low. His eyes meet mine—steady, unreadable. “Storm came in faster than they said. Figured I’d get started before it gets worse.”
“You don’t have to work in this.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Roof won’t fix itself.”
I step back, holding the door wider. “Come in. At least dry off for a minute.”
He hesitates, then climbs the steps, boots heavy on the wood. Water drips from his cap, his sleeves, the ends of his hair. He smells like rain and pine and something faintly metallic—tools, maybe, or the truck’s cab. He stops just inside the threshold, careful not to track mud across the floor.
I close the door behind him. The cottage feels smaller with him in it. His presence fills the space the way heat fills a room after the stove’s been lit. He glances around, taking in the buckets, the towel I’ve dropped on the counter, the way the ceiling is already darkening in new spots.
“Worse than yesterday,” he says.
“Yeah.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I thought I’d have more time.”
He sets the toolbox down with a soft thud, peels off the cap, and runs a hand through his wet hair. It sticks up in dark spikes. “I’ll start on the roof. You got a ladder?”
“In the shed out back. But it’s pouring. You’ll get soaked.”
“Already am.” There’s the faintest curve to his mouth, not quite a smile, but close enough that my stomach does a slow flip.
I bite my lip. “I can help. I’m not useless with a hammer.”
He studies me for a long moment. Rain hammers the roof overhead, steady and insistent. Finally, he nods. “Okay. But only what you can reach from the ladder. No climbing on the roof in this.”
“Deal.”
I grab my old rain jacket from the hook, pull on my sneakers even though they’re still damp, and follow him back out into the storm.
The wind whips the rain sideways as we round the house.
He carries the ladder as if it weighs nothing, sets it against the eaves on the kitchen side, where the leak is worst. I hold it steady while he climbs first, toolbox slung over one shoulder.
Water streams down his back, darkening the T-shirt until it clings to every ridge of muscle.
I look away, cheeks warm despite the cold.
When he’s up top, he calls down, “Hand me the shingles.”
I pass them up one bundle at a time, rain stinging my face, hair plastered to my neck. He works methodically, tearing off damaged sections, laying new felt, nailing shingles in place with quick, sure strokes. The hammer sounds sharp against the roar of the storm.
After a while, he pauses, looks down at me. “Come up. There’s room on this side. You can hold the flashing while I seal it.”
I climb carefully, the ladder creaking under my weight.
When I reach the top rung, he reaches down, his hand closing around my forearm, warm and steady.
He pulls me onto the roof with easy strength, guiding me to the flattest section near the peak.
The slope isn’t steep here, but the rain makes everything slick.
I brace one hand on the chimney for balance.
We’re close now, closer than we’ve been since the ladder incident at the center. His shoulder brushes mine as he shifts to make space. The heat of him cuts through the cold like a flame.
“Hold this,” he says, pressing a strip of metal flashing into my hands. “Keep it flush.”
I nod, fingers numb from the rain. He works beside me, caulk gun in one hand, smoothing the sealant with steady pressure.
Rain drips from his lashes, runs down the side of his face.
I steal glances when I think he won’t notice.
The scar on his jaw, the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that speak of years spent squinting into sun and smoke.
We work in silence for a while, the storm loud enough that words feel unnecessary. But the quiet starts to press in, heavy with things unsaid.
I clear my throat. “Declan used to talk about you sometimes. Not by name, just ‘my teammate.’ Said you were the one who always had his back.”
Ronan’s hand stills for half a second. Then he keeps working. “He had mine too.”
“He said you saved his life once. In a firefight. Pulled him behind cover when he took shrapnel.”
Ronan exhales through his nose. “He would’ve done the same.”
“I know.” I swallow. “He was always the brave one. I was the one who stayed home and worried.”
He glances at me then, quick and sharp. “Worrying’s its own kind of brave.”
The words land softly, unexpectedly. I feel them settle somewhere deep.
We finish the flashing. He takes the caulk gun from me, caps it, and we sit for a minute on the slope of the roof, legs dangling over the edge. Rain pelts us, but neither of us moves to go down yet.
I hug my knees to my chest. “I didn’t come here just for the job or the cottage. I needed to start over. Completely.”
He doesn’t look at me, stares out at the gray ocean churning in the distance. “Bad relationship?”
The question is quiet, careful. No pressure. Just an opening.
I nod. “Yeah. Bad doesn’t quite cover it. Controlling. Angry. The kind where you wake up one day and realize you haven’t decided anything for yourself in months.”
He’s silent for so long, I think he won’t respond. Then, “He hurt you?”
“Physically? A few times. Mostly it was the other stuff—words, looks, the way he made me feel small. I left.”
Rain drums on the shingles around us. Wind tugs at my wet hair.
Ronan shifts, elbow brushing mine. “Does he know where you are?”
My heart stutters. “No. I was careful. No social media. Burner phone. No ties here. He doesn’t even know Oregon was on my list.”
He turns his head then and meets my eyes. His eyes are dark, serious. “He's the kind who’d look anyway?”
I think about Travis, his jealousy, his need to control every detail.
The way he’d check my phone, question every late night at the studio.
“Maybe, but he doesn’t have a reason to think I’d come somewhere like this.
I never mentioned Declan’s stories about the coast. Never talked about wanting to live by the ocean.
He’ll look in the cities first. Seattle, Portland. Places I know people.”
Ronan nods slowly. “You got a plan if he does show up?”
I hug my knees tighter. “Sheriff’s number in my phone. A restraining order was filed before I left. I’m not going back. Not ever.”
He looks at me for a long moment, rain tracing paths down his face. “Good.”
One word. Simple. But it carries weight.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thanks for asking. Most people don’t.”
“Most people don’t know what it’s like to carry something like that.”
The words hang between us, quiet and true.
He stands first and offers me his hand. I take it, his palm is rough and warm despite the cold. He pulls me up easily, steadying me when the roof shifts under our weight.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get the rest of this flashing done before the wind takes it.”
We work side by side until the last strip is sealed, until the rain eases into a steady drizzle instead of a downpour. My fingers are pruned, my clothes soaked through, but something inside me feels lighter, like the storm carried away a little of the weight I’ve been holding.
When we finally climb down the ladder, he holds it steady for me the whole way. I step onto the ground and turn to face him.
“Thank you,” I say. “For today. For listening.”
He nods once, water dripping from the ends of his hair. “Go inside. Get dry. I’ll finish the sink tomorrow if the weather clears.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” He cuts me off gently. “But I will.”
He turns toward his truck, toolbox in hand.
“Ronan?”
He pauses, looks back.
“Be careful driving home,” I say. “The roads are slick.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a fraction. “I will.”
Then he’s gone, climbing into the cab, engine rumbling to life. I watch his taillights disappear down the wet gravel until the trees swallow them.
I stand there a minute longer, rain dripping from the eaves, heart beating steady for the first time in a long time.