Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
SOL
Apparently, I’ve been a nightmare.
Kai tells me this over cereal, milk sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the bowl as he gestures with the spoon like he’s conducting a symphony of my personal failings.
“You’ve been snapping at everyone,” he says. “Clients. Locals. Me. Koa. That poor bloke yesterday who asked if the surf was safe.”
“It wasn’t,” I mutter.
“That’s not the point.”
Koa leans back in his chair, arms folded, watching me like I’m something he doesn’t quite recognise anymore. “You’ve been insufferable for weeks.”
“Weeks,” Kai echoes. “With a capital W.”
I grind my teeth and focus on tightening the strap of my watch. Too tight. I loosen it again.
“I’m fine,” I say, for what feels like the thousandth time.
No one believes me.
Finn isn’t here.
That’s the real problem, I think dimly. The balance is off. Finn’s usually the one who diffuses things – calm, steady, the quiet line between chaos and implosion. Without him, the house feels louder. Sharper.
Empty.
“Where is Finn, anyway?” Kai asks, like he’s just noticed the gap. “He’s barely been back this week.”
Koa shrugs. “Next door.”
My head snaps up before I can stop it. “What?”
They both look at me.
“He’s with Lani,” Koa says. “She’s really not well and he didn’t want to leave her alone.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Not well.
A dozen images flicker unbidden through my head – her moving slower than usual, the way she’d paused between lifting pots, that faint, sharp scent that didn’t sit right. I shove it all down immediately.
“Sick?” I ask, carefully neutral.
“Yeah,” Kai says. “Like…properly. Finn’s been staying over, making soup, playing nursemaid. Very domestic.”
Something tightens behind my ribs.
I shouldn’t feel anything about that. Finn’s allowed to care about whoever he wants. It’s none of my business.
“Why didn’t anyone say anything?” I snap.
Koa frowns. “I assumed you knew. You have eyes, right?”
“Why would I know?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Koa tilts his head. “You’ve been avoiding her like she personally offended your ancestors.”
“That’s not—” I stop myself. Swallow. “I’ve been busy.”
“With what?” Kai asks. “Because it’s not work. You’ve been distracted as hell.”
I don’t have an answer.
That’s the problem.
I drag a hand through my hair and stand, restless energy crawling under my skin like static. “I didn’t know she was sick.”
Finn would have said something.
Wouldn’t he?
Unless—
No. I cut that thought off hard. There’s no reason Finn would keep something like that from me. He’s not secretive. Not with things that matter.
And yet.
The guilt hits anyway, heavy and unwelcome.
I remember the way I’d snapped at her over the fence. The way I’d helped with the plants without looking at her properly. The way I’d made a point of not looking again. Of not going back to finish the job.
Avoidance isn’t neutral. It leaves marks.
I turn toward the door. “I’m heading out.”
“Where?” Kai asks.
“Beach,” I say. “I need air.”
Koa watches me closely. “You alright, man?”
I pause, hand on the door.
“No,” I say honestly. Then leave before they can ask more.
The wind off the sea should help.
It doesn’t.
Every step down the sand feels wrong, like I’m moving through a place that remembers something I’m refusing to name. I scan the shoreline without meaning to – half expecting to see her there, wrapped in that oversized jumper, hair pulled back, stubborn and soft and—
I swear under my breath.
This is ridiculous.
She’s sick. Finn’s looking after her. End of story.
Except it isn’t.
Because the guilt doesn’t settle. It coils tighter instead, low and sharp. I should have noticed. Should have asked. Shouldn’t have acted like helping her was some kind of favour instead of the bare minimum of being decent.
I didn’t know.
But I also didn’t try.
That sits worse.
I kick at the sand and breathe in the salt-heavy air, trying to burn the restlessness out of my lungs.
There’s nothing I can do now without making it worse.
So I do what I’ve been doing for weeks.
I stay away.
And somewhere, deep down, a quiet, dangerous thought takes root—
That whatever’s wrong with her might not be entirely unrelated to whatever the hell is wrong with me.
I don’t go far.
I tell myself I’m heading for the beach, but my feet take me down the lane instead – slow, restless steps that don’t know where they’re going. The morning’s too quiet. Sun’s too bright. Everything’s normal in a way that makes my skin itch.
Her cottage comes into view before I realise I’ve turned back.
I stop. Stand there like a fucking idiot, staring at the place as if it might explain itself if I wait long enough. Curtains drawn. Door shut. No movement on the porch. No sign of her.
Good. That’s good…right?
She doesn’t need me hovering. Doesn’t need my mood or my questions or my presence dragging everything up again. I did enough damage already without sticking my nose into her life.
I turn away.
Make it three steps before stopping again.
Fuck.
I scrub a hand over my face and pace a tight circle in the gravel, breath sharp in my chest. Every instinct in me is pulling the wrong way – forward, closer, toward her – while my head screams to stay the hell away.
She’s sick, the twins said.
Sick.
The word lands heavier than it should, hitting a spot deep in my chest that aches inexplicably.
I didn’t know. That’s the part I cling to. I didn’t know when I snapped at her. When I avoided her. When I pretended I didn’t notice how pale she looked that morning, how careful her movements were.
I didn’t know.
I just walked away.
My jaw tightens.
I force myself to move – down the path, away from her place, boots crunching too loud against the stones. The sea air hits me hard when I reach the headland, sharp and briny, like it’s trying to cut something loose inside my chest.
I stand there for a long time, staring out at the water.
It doesn’t help.
My thoughts keep looping back – her hands shaking around that mug, the way she’d gone still when I looked at her neck, the way the twins talked about her and Finn like it mattered.
Finn.
The word curdles.
I don’t begrudge him helping her. I don’t. He’s good with people. Soft where I’m sharp. Careful where I’m not. If anyone’s going to look after her, it makes sense that it’s him.
That doesn’t stop the low, ugly twist of something in my gut when I picture it.
When I picture her curled on someone else’s sofa. Someone else’s chest.
I shove the thought away and start walking again, faster this time, burning it off. Back past the row of ocean view houses. Past the turnoff to her place.
I don’t look.
Up to the main road and down into the village. I walk and walk and walk and don’t stop until I’m exhausted.
I make it home eventually, muscles tight, mood worse than when I left. Kai takes one look at my face and wisely says nothing. Koa’s gone. Finn’s still not back.
The silence stretches.
I tell myself I’ll give it a day. Just one. Let Finn handle it. Let her rest. Let whatever this is pass without me making it worse.
I sit on the edge of the table, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
One day.
That’s reasonable.
That’s controlled.
That’s—
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I look at it. Don’t touch it. Then I do when I spot Finn’s name.
Finn
Got called away tomorrow. Business shit. Can you and the twins keep an eye on her if needed? She’s worse tonight. Don’t want her alone.
The words blur for a second.
Worse.
Alone.
Something inside my chest snaps – not loud, not dramatic. Just a clean, sharp break. The kind that leaves no room for debate.
I grab my keys.
If Finn can’t be there, then she shouldn’t be on her own.
And if something’s wrong – really wrong – I’m not letting her ride it out with my idiot twin brothers who don’t know what to look out for.
I don’t know what’s happening to her.
But I know one thing with brutal clarity: I’m not leaving her unprotected while Finn’s gone.