Chapter 6
Chapter six
Ronan
The rain has eased to a steady drizzle by the time I pull the truck into the gravel patch beside the cabin.
Water still beads on the windshield, blurring the pines into soft green shapes.
I sit there a minute with the engine off, listening to the tick of cooling metal and the patter on the roof.
My clothes are soaked through, shirt clinging cold to my skin, jeans heavy, but it’s not the chill that’s got me unsettled.
It’s the memory of her standing close on that roof, rain tracing paths down her face, the way her eyes held mine when she talked about starting over.
I wanted to kiss her.
The thought hits hard and clear, no room for excuses.
Not a passing impulse. A real, bone-deep want.
Her lips parted just slightly as she spoke, breath visible in the cold air, the faint tremble in her voice when she said she wasn’t going back.
I could’ve leaned in. Could’ve closed the distance and tasted the rain on her mouth.
Instead, I handed her the caulk gun and kept my hands busy so they wouldn’t betray me.
I shove the door open harder than necessary and step out into the wet evening.
The air smells of damp earth and salt. I grab the toolbox from the truck bed, carry it inside, and set it down by the door with more force than it needs.
Water drips from my sleeves onto the floorboards.
I peel off the shirt, toss it over the back of a chair, and head for the bathroom.
Hot water helps. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, letting the steam fill the small space.
But the heat doesn’t burn away the image of her—wet hair plastered to her neck, sweater clinging in ways I tried not to notice, the quiet strength in her voice when she said no one was following her here.
I shut off the water, towel-dry roughly, and pull on dry jeans and a clean thermal.
The mirror shows me the same face I’ve seen every day for years—scar, stubble, eyes that look older than they should. Nothing new. Nothing changed.
Except something has.
I move to the kitchen, start the kettle out of habit.
Coffee feels too heavy for the hour, so I make tea instead—black, strong, the way my mom used to drink it when she was trying to stay awake through night shifts.
The mug warms my palms. I carry it to the porch and settle into the chair, even though the seat is damp.
The drizzle has lightened to mist. Lights from the harbor glow faint and gold down the hill.
She’s out there somewhere in that cottage, probably peeling off wet clothes, maybe running a hot bath, perhaps just sitting with a cup of something warm and wondering if she said too much.
I shouldn’t care. I don’t get to care. Declan’s sister or not, she’s a stranger who’s passing through my quiet life like a stone skipped across still water, causing ripples I didn’t ask for.
I sip the tea. It’s bitter. Good.
By the time the mug is empty, the sky has gone full dark.
Streetlights along Main flicker on, hazy in the mist. My stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten since morning.
The diner’s still open. Jonny keeps late hours for the night-shift fishermen and anyone else who needs a hot meal, with no questions asked.
I grab my jacket—a dry one this time—lock the door, and walk down the gravel road toward town. The air is cooler now, carrying the clean scent of rain-washed pine. My boots crunch softly. No hurry. Just the rhythm of steps and the low hum of my own thoughts.
The diner’s windows glow warm yellow against the night. I push through the door; the bell jingles. Heat and the smell of fried onions wrap around me. Jonny looks up from the grill, nods once.
“Evening, Ronan.”
“Jonny.”
I take my usual stool. He slides a menu over even though we both know I don’t need it.
“Burger tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah. Medium. Coffee after.”
He grunts approval and turns back to the grill.
The place is half-full—a couple of regulars at the counter, a booth of fishermen laughing low over their plates, Marjorie in her usual spot by the window with a cup of decaf and the local paper. She spots me, smiles that knowing smile of hers.
“Well, look who’s out in the rain.”
“Evening, Marjorie.”
She folds the paper. “Heard you were up at the new girl’s place today. Roof work in the rain? That’s dedication.”
I keep my expression neutral. “The roof was leaking. Fixed it.”
“Uh-huh.” She sips her coffee. “Isla seemed really grateful when she stopped by the center earlier to drop off some files. Said you saved her from a flooded kitchen.”
“Did what needed doing.”
One of the fishermen—Hank, gray beard, perpetual squint—leans over from his stool. “Heard she’s pretty too. You get a good look?”
Laughter ripples down the counter. Jonny chuckles while he flips the burger.
I don’t rise to it. “She’s Declan’s sister.”
The laughter quiets a fraction. Hank raises a brow. “Didn’t know he had one.”
“Most folks don’t,” I say. “Doesn’t change the job.”
Marjorie tilts her head. “She’s sweet, Ronan. Quiet. Looks like she’s carrying something heavy. It would be nice if someone showed her this town’s not all strangers.”
I meet her eyes. “She’s here to work. Not to make friends.”
“Everyone needs friends,” she says softly.
Jonny slides the plate in front of me, with a burger, fries, and a pickle spear on the side. “Eat before it gets cold.”
I pick up the burger, take a bite. It’s juicy, hot, and the bun is toasted just right. I chew slowly, let the normalcy of it ground me. The teasing dies down. Conversation drifts back to crab prices and the new buoy markers the coast guard put out.
I’m halfway through the meal when movement outside the window catches my eye.
Isla.
She’s walking along the sidewalk across the street, hood up against the mist, hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets.
The streetlight catches her profile, chin tucked, shoulders rounded like she’s bracing for something.
She’s heading toward the turnoff that leads up to the bluff, toward the cottage.
I watch her without meaning to. She stops under the next light and pulls her phone from her pocket.
The screen glows blue against her face. She reads something, and her whole body changes—shoulders hike up, free hand curls into a fist at her side.
She stares at the screen for a long beat, then types quickly, thumbs moving fast. Deletes. Types again. Her lips press thin.
She looks scared.
Not startled. Not annoyed. Scared. The kind that settles deep and stays.
She shoves the phone back in her pocket, glances around like she’s checking for eyes on her, then keeps walking. Faster now. Head down.
My burger sits forgotten.
Jonny notices me staring. “Everything okay?”
I push the plate away. “Yeah. Just… forgot something.”
I drop cash on the counter, more than enough for my meal and tip, and stand. Marjorie watches me go but doesn’t say anything. The bell jingles behind me as I step out into the mist.
The air feels colder now. I cross the street, keeping to the shadows of the buildings, pace matching hers but staying half a block back. Not following. Just making sure she gets home safe. That’s what I tell myself.
She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t slow. Just walks with that hurried, shoulders-high stride that speaks of someone who’s learned to make herself small when the world feels too big.
At the turnoff to the bluff road, she pauses again.
Pulls the phone out once more. This time, she doesn’t type.
Just reads. Her face crumples for half a second—quick, gone before anyone who wasn’t watching closely would catch it.
Then she powers the phone off, slips it into her pocket, and starts up the hill.
I stay where I am, half-hidden by the hardware store’s awning. The mist clings to my jacket. I watch until she disappears around the bend, until the sound of her footsteps fades.
The words she said on the roof echo back to me. No. He doesn’t know I’m here. No ties.
But someone’s texting her, someone who makes her flinch under streetlights.
I turn back toward my truck, hands shoved deep in my pockets. The walk home feels longer than it should.
Inside the cabin, I lock the door, hang the jacket, and move to the kitchen without turning on more than the small lamp over the sink. I pour a glass of water and drink it standing at the counter. The quiet presses in.
I think about the fear in her eyes today, not when she talked about the past, but when she looked at that screen. The way her fingers shook just a little when she typed.
I set the glass down harder than I meant to. It clinks against the granite.
She said no one would follow. She believed it. Or wanted to.
I walk to the living room window, stare out at the dark stretch of trees and the faint glow of the harbor below. Somewhere up the hill, she’s in that cottage alone, probably double-checking locks, maybe sitting with the lights off so no one can see her silhouette.
I rub a hand over my jaw. Feel the stubble. Feel the pull I’ve been fighting since she said my name at the center.
Declan would’ve wanted me to watch out for her. He never asked, but he didn’t have to. Brothers don’t need to ask.
But this isn’t just duty. Not anymore.
I turn away from the window and head to the bedroom. Strip down, slide under the covers. The sheets are cool. I stare at the ceiling, listen to the wind move through the pines.
Sleep doesn’t come easily tonight.
When it finally does, I dream of phone screens glowing in the dark, of messages that read like threats, of a woman walking alone under streetlights while shadows stretch too long behind her.
And in the dream, I’m running, boots pounding gravel, heart slamming, but no matter how fast I go, I can’t quite reach her before the dark closes in.
I wake before dawn, sheets tangled, chest tight.
The cabin is quiet.
But something inside me isn’t anymore.
Tomorrow I’ll go back to the cottage. Fix the sink. Check the windows. Make sure the locks hold.
And maybe, carefully, I’ll ask her about the phone. About the messages that make her flinch.
Not because I have the right.
Because I can’t stand the thought of her carrying that fear alone.
Not when I’m close enough to do something about it.