Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Isla
The fog is thicker tonight than it’s been all week, rolling in off the Pacific like a living thing, soft and smothering.
I pull my coat tighter around me as I leave the cottage, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that makes my chest ache.
It’s been exactly one year since Declan died—one year since the knock at the door, since the uniformed officer’s careful words, since the world tilted and never quite righted itself again.
I don’t plan to go far, just to the lighthouse.
It’s a half-mile walk along the bluff path, gravel crunching under my sneakers, the beam sweeping slow and steady across the water like a heartbeat that refuses to stop.
Declan loved lighthouses. He used to send me postcards from every port he visited, always with the same message scrawled on the back: “Still standing watch, sis.” I kept everyone in a shoebox under my bed until Travis found them one night and called them “sentimental garbage.” I moved the box to my car the next day, hidden under the spare tire. It’s still in the trunk now, safe.
The path winds upward, narrow and slick from the day’s rain. Wind tugs at my hood, carries the salt sting of the sea. My breath clouds in front of me. I don’t mind the cold. It matches the hollow place inside my ribs.
When I reach the lighthouse, the door is unlocked.
According to the locals, it always is, for anyone who needs to remember.
I step inside, close the door against the wind, and climb the spiral stairs.
The iron railing is cold under my palm. Each step echoes softly.
At the top, the lantern room is quiet except for the low hum of the mechanism turning the lens.
The light sweeps out over the black water, bright and indifferent.
I sit on the narrow bench that circles the room, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The view is endless: a dark sea, a darker sky, the occasional flash of white from a wave breaking far below. I close my eyes and let the memories come.
Declan laughing in the kitchen when we were kids, flour on his nose from trying to make pancakes.
Declan hugging me goodbye before his last deployment, smelling like aftershave and promise.
Declan’s voice on the phone, crackling over a bad connection: “I’m okay, Isla.
Just another day.” The last time I heard from him.
A sob catches in my throat. I press my forehead to my knees and let it out quietly and shaking, the crying that’s been waiting a long time. No one’s here to see. No one’s here to tell me to stop. It’s just me and the light and the sea.
I don’t hear the door below open. Don’t hear the footsteps on the stairs. But I feel the shift in the air, the way the cold changes when another body enters the space.
I lift my head.
Ronan stands at the top of the stairs, jacket zipped to his chin, hair damp from the fog. He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at me with those steady eyes that see too much.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says finally, voice low.
“I needed to be.”
He nods once, like he understands. Maybe he does.
He crosses the small room, sits on the bench beside me, not too close, but close enough that I feel the warmth of him cutting through the chill. His shoulder brushes mine for a second before he shifts away. We sit in silence, the beam sweeping past every few seconds, painting us in brief gold.
After a while, he speaks. “I didn’t know it was today.”
“I didn’t tell anyone.” I wipe my cheeks with the sleeve of my coat. “Didn’t want the pity looks.”
“No pity here.”
I glance at him. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the window. “You come here often?”
“Sometimes.” He exhales slowly. “When the quiet gets too loud.”
I know exactly what he means.
We don’t talk for long. The light keeps turning. The wind moans around the tower.
“I keep thinking about the last thing he said to me,” I whisper. “On the phone. He told me to take care of Mom. I promised I would. But I couldn’t even do that right. She’s still grieving, still angry at the world. I ran away instead of staying to help her through it.”
Ronan turns his head slowly. “You didn’t run from her. You ran from him.”
The words land gently but sure. My throat closes.
“I ran from both,” I admit. “I was drowning back there. Travis… he made everything feel small. Like I didn’t deserve to breathe without his permission. After Declan died, I just… shut down. Let Travis fill the space because it was easier than feeling the hole. But it wasn’t easier. It was worse.”
He’s quiet for so long, I think he won’t answer. Then, softly, “Declan would’ve hated that for you.”
“I know.” Fresh tears burn my eyes. “He’d have dragged me out of there himself if he’d known.”
Ronan’s hand moves—slow, careful—until it rests on the bench between us, palm up—an invitation, not a demand.
I stare at it for a moment, then I slide my hand into his.
His fingers close around mine. Warm. Steady. Calloused in all the right places. We sit like that, hands clasped, watching the light sweep across the water.
“I tried to save him,” he says after a while, voice rough. “In the helo. It went down fast. I got to him, but the fire… I couldn’t get him out. He told me to go. I didn’t listen until it was too late.”
My heart twists. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to die, too.”
“I know.” He swallows. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
I squeeze his hand. “No. It doesn’t.”
We stay like that until the cold starts to seep deeper. Until my teeth chatter just a little.
Ronan stands first, pulls me up with him. “Come on. You’re freezing.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not.” He keeps my hand in his as we descend the stairs. “My place is closer than yours. You can warm up. Coffee. Dry clothes if you want.”
I don’t argue. The fog is heavier now, the path barely visible. I let him lead me down the bluff, past the lighthouse keeper’s old cottage, to the small cabin tucked against the trees. His truck is parked out front. The porch light is on—soft, welcoming.
Inside, it smells like pine and woodsmoke and him. He flips on a lamp, heads straight for the woodstove, opens the door, and stirs the embers until flames catch. The room warms quickly.
“Sit,” he says, nodding to the couch. “I’ll get you something dry.”
He disappears into the bedroom, comes back with a soft gray sweatshirt and a pair of thick socks. “They’ll be big, but they’re warm.”
I take them, fingers brushing his. “Thank you.”
He turns his back while I change—polite, careful. The sweatshirt hangs past my hips, sleeves swallowing my hands. The socks bunch at my ankles. I feel small in his clothes. Safe.
When he turns around again, his eyes darken for a second, something raw flickering through them before he looks away.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please.”
He moves to the kitchen. I follow, leaning against the counter while he fills the kettle and measures grounds. Domestic. Quiet. The normal I haven’t had in years.
When the coffee’s ready, he hands me a mug. Our fingers touch again. This time, neither of us pulls away.
We stand there, close enough to feel each other’s warmth, mugs steaming between us.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” I say softly.
He looks down at me. “I couldn’t stay away.”
The words hang there—simple, honest.
I set my mug on the counter. Step closer. Tilt my head up.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Time slows.
He lifts a hand and cups my cheek. His thumb brushes the corner of my lip. Slow. Careful. Asking.
I answer by rising on my toes and pressing my mouth to his.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, searching. Then he groans low in his throat, and everything changes.
His arms come around me, pulling me flush against him. I wrap mine around his neck, fingers threading into his hair. He tastes like coffee and salt and something darker, hungrier. The kiss deepens. It’s open-mouthed, urgent, years of grief and loneliness pouring out between us.
He lifts me easily and sets me on the counter. Steps between my knees. His hands slide under the sweatshirt, palms warm on my bare skin. I arch into him, gasping against his mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Don’t.”
He kisses me harder, claiming, reverent. His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat. I tilt my head back, fingers digging into his shoulders. He lifts me again, carries me to the bedroom without breaking the kiss.
The bed is soft, the sheets cool against my back. He follows me down, weight braced on his forearms, mouth never leaving mine. Clothes come off slowly. First, his shirt, my borrowed sweatshirt, jeans, everything until there’s only skin and heat and the sound of our breathing.
He’s careful with me, slow hands, gentle touches, eyes locked on mine like he’s memorizing every reaction.
When he finally slides inside me, it’s with a low groan that vibrates through both of us.
I wrap my legs around him, pull him deeper.
We move together, slow at first, then faster, desperate, chasing something we’ve both needed for too long.
It builds fast—pleasure sharp and bright. I come with his name on my lips, nails scoring his back. He follows a moment later, burying his face in my neck, body shaking.
We stay tangled like that, breathing hard, hearts pounding in tandem.
Then he rolls to the side, pulls me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, tight and protective.
For a minute, it’s perfect. Quiet. Safe.
Then he tenses.
I feel the shift in his breathing, the way his hand stills on my back.
He pulls away slowly. Sits up. Runs a hand through his hair.
“Ronan?”
He doesn’t look at me. “This was a mistake.”
The words land like cold water.
I sit up, pulling the sheet around me. “Don’t say that.”
He stands, grabs his jeans from the floor, and pulls them on. “I shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re Declan’s sister.”
“Ronan—”
“I’m no good for you.” His voice is rough, cracked. “I couldn’t save him. I can’t fix what’s broken in me. You deserve better than someone who’s still carrying ghosts.”
Tears sting my eyes. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”
He finally looks at me, eyes dark with regret. “I know. But I’m deciding what I can live with.”
He turns away and walks to the door. Pauses with his hand on the knob.
“I’ll take you home,” he says quietly. “Or you can stay, but it can’t happen again.”
He steps out and closes the door softly behind him.
I sit there in the quiet room, sheet clutched to my chest, listening to the wind move through the pines.
The lighthouse beam is still sweeping somewhere out there—steady, endless.
But tonight, the light feels farther away than ever.