Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Ronan
The bed is cold when my eyes open. Not just empty, but cold in a way that says it’s been that way for hours.
I lie there a moment, staring at the ceiling beams, the faint gray light of pre-dawn seeping through the window.
The sheets still carry the faint scent of her—rain, salt, and something softer, warmer, like vanilla and skin.
My hand reaches across the mattress anyway, palm sliding over the place where she curled against me last night. Nothing. Just cool cotton.
I sit up slowly, the ache in my chest sharper than any bruise I’ve taken in years. The room is quiet except for the low crackle of last night’s embers dying in the woodstove. Her borrowed sweatshirt is folded neatly on the chair where she left it. The socks are gone. So is she.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the cold floorboards.
My jeans are still crumpled where I dropped them.
I pull them on, tug a clean shirt from the dresser, and move through the motions of morning like they’ll keep the regret from sinking any deeper.
Coffee. Kettle. Grounds. Pour. The routine should steady me. It doesn’t.
She didn’t leave a note. Didn’t need to. The door closing softly behind her last night said enough. I told her it was a mistake. I told her I was no good for her. And she listened.
Good.
That’s what I wanted.
So why does the cabin feel hollower than it did before she ever stepped inside?
I carry the mug to the porch and settle into the Adirondack chair, even though the seat is damp with morning dew.
The fog is thick again, swallowing the harbor lights below.
I sip the coffee and let the burn ground me.
She’s gone. Back to the cottage. Back to her life.
Back to whatever walls she’s built to keep the world out. I should leave it that way.
I spend the day avoiding town.
I drive the long way around to the north bluff and spend the morning clearing fallen branches from the old logging road that hasn’t seen traffic in years.
The chainsaw’s roar drowns out everything: thoughts, regrets, the echo of her gasp against my mouth.
When the tank runs dry, I switch to the axe, splitting rounds until my shoulders burn and my shirt sticks to my back.
Sweat mixes with sawdust. My hands blister under the gloves.
I welcome the pain. It’s honest. Clean. Nothing like the mess I made last night.
By noon, the fog has burned off enough to let pale sunlight slant through the trees. I sit on a stump, drink warm water from the bottle I brought, and stare at nothing. My phone stays silent in my pocket. No messages. No missed calls. She hasn’t reached out. I haven’t either.
Good.
I tell myself that again, louder this time, like repetition will make it true.
Afternoon finds me back at the cabin. I shower—hot water pounding my shoulders until the ache dulls—then sit at the small table with a sandwich I don’t taste. The clock on the wall ticks too loudly. Three-thirty. Four. The light starts to slant lower, turning everything gold at the edges.
I need air.
I grab my jacket, keys, and head into town. Not to look for her. To move. Just to be somewhere that isn’t filled with the ghost of her breathing beside me.
The diner is quiet when I walk in. Late-afternoon lull. Jonny’s wiping down the counter. Marjorie’s gone for the day. A couple of regulars nurse coffee at the far end. I take my usual stool.
“Coffee?” Jonny asks without looking up.
“Black.”
He pours. Slide the mug over. I wrap my hands around it, let the heat seep in.
“You look like hell,” he says conversationally.
“Rough night.”
He grunts. Doesn’t push. That’s why I like Jonny. He knows when to leave a man alone with his coffee.
I’m halfway through the mug when the bell jingles.
A man steps inside—tall, lean, expensive leather jacket over a button-down that looks too crisp for Haven’s Cove.
Dark hair slicked back. Eyes scanning the room like he’s cataloging exits.
He moves with the kind of confidence that borders on arrogance, shoulders squared, chin up.
The type of walk that says he’s used to people getting out of his way.
He heads straight for the counter, stops two stools down from me.
Jonny looks up. “Afternoon. What can I get you?”
The man doesn’t sit. “Information.”
Jonny raises a brow. “We serve food. Information’s extra.”
The stranger doesn’t smile. “I’m looking for a woman. Isla Hart. About five-six, dark hair, quiet. New in town. Rents the cottage up on the bluff.”
My grip tightens on the mug. The ceramic is hot enough to burn, but I don’t let go.
Jonny keeps wiping the same spot on the counter. “Lots of folks come and go. Why are you asking?”
“She’s my fiancée.” The word comes out smooth, practiced. “We fought. She took off. I’m here to bring her home.”
The lie lands flat. Fiancée. The word tastes wrong even from across the counter.
Jonny’s eyes flick to me for half a second, then back to the man. “Haven’t seen anyone matching that description. Have you tried the community center? They know most newcomers.”
“I did. The lady there said she works there. Wouldn’t give an address. Said privacy laws or some bullshit.” The man’s voice hardens on the last word. “I just want to talk to her. Make sure she’s okay.”
He leans forward slightly. The posture isn’t aggressive, not yet, but there’s an edge to it. A promise of pressure if the answer isn’t the one he wants.
Jonny shrugs. “Can’t help you. Coffee’s on the house if you want one.”
The man straightens. His gaze sweeps the diner again, slower this time. Lands on me.
Our eyes meet.
His narrow. Recognition? Calculation? Hard to tell.
“You local?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. Just hold his stare. Let him read whatever he wants in the silence.
Finally, I speak. “Yeah.”
“Seen her?”
I take a slow sip of coffee. “Seen a lot of people.”
He smiles thinly. There’s no warmth. “She’s got a habit of running when things get hard. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t need to come home. Family looks out for family.”
The word family twists in his mouth like a weapon.
I set the mug down carefully. “She’s a grown woman. Makes her own choices.”
His smile tightens. “Sometimes she needs help remembering what those choices should be.”
The diner has gone quiet. The regulars are watching now, forks paused halfway to mouths. Jonny’s hand rests near the register, close to the bat he keeps under the counter for rowdy nights.
The stranger notices. His posture shifts—subtle, but enough. Backing off without retreating.
“Well,” he says, voice light again. “If you see her, tell her Travis is in town. Tell her I’m staying at the motel on the highway and I’m not leaving without her.”
He turns and walks out. The bell jingles behind him, sounding cheerful and wrong.
Silence lingers a beat.
Jonny exhales. “That guy’s trouble.”
“Yeah.”
I stand, drop cash on the counter. “Keep an eye out.”
Jonny nods. “Always do.”
I step outside. The air feels colder now. The sun is low, painting the harbor in long gold streaks. Travis’s rental car, a sleek black sedan that looks out of place, pulls away from the curb, heading toward the highway.
I watch it go, then I turn toward the bluff road. She needs to know he’s here, and she needs to know I’m not letting him near her.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
I climb the hill, boots crunching gravel, heart pounding harder than the climb should warrant. The cottage comes into view, lights on in the kitchen window, soft and warm against the gathering dusk.
I stop at the bottom of the porch steps.
Take a breath and knock. The door opens slowly.
Isla stands there, sweater sleeves pushed up, hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes widen when she sees me.
“Ronan?”
I don’t waste time on hello.
“He’s here.”
Her face drains of color.
“Travis. Asking around town. Said he’s your fiancé and he’s here to take you home.”
She sways, just a fraction. I step forward instinctively, hand reaching to steady her elbow. She doesn’t pull away.
“He’s staying at the motel,” I say quietly. “On the highway.”
She closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them again, they’re bright with something that looks dangerously close to tears.
“I thought I was careful,” she whispers.
“You were.”
“Not careful enough.”
I tighten my grip on her elbow, gentle but firm. “You’re not going back to him.”
She looks up at me. “I know.”
“Good.”
Silence stretches between us.
Then she steps back, opening the door wider.
“Come in,” she says softly. “Please.”
I step inside.
The door closes behind me.
And just like that, the space between us shrinks again, smaller than it was last night, heavier with everything we haven’t said.
I don’t touch her, not yet, but I stay.
And for the first time in years, staying feels like the only choice that makes sense.