12. Salt and Stone #2
I almost laughed, but it came out shaky. “Is that your professional opinion, Captain?”
He smiled, a flash of white teeth, but his eyes stayed serious. “Just a man who's run from his share of ghosts. You don't have to talk about it, but you can. If you want.”
His openness cracked something in me. I let out a shaky breath. “Everything feels wrong. I don't know who I'm supposed to be here. With everyone who remembers my mother as someone I should live up to, when I'm not even sure I know who she really was in the end.”
He reached out then, his hand settling on my knee—heavy, warm, grounding. “She'd be proud of you. Not because you've got it all figured out. Because you're still trying. Most people never even get that far.”
The heat of his palm radiated up my leg, rooting me to the moment. I wanted to believe him, wanted to lean into the warmth and strength he was offering.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” I asked, searching his face.
His hand moved slightly, thumb brushing against the inside of my knee in a touch that might have been accidental but felt deliberate. “Because I know what it's like to be adrift. To want something so bad it feels like it'll tear you apart, but to be too scared to reach for it.”
His touch was burning through the fabric of my jeans, making it hard to think, hard to remember why this was dangerous territory .
“How did you do it?” My voice was quieter than I meant. “After your wife died. How did you survive it?”
A flicker of something old and wounded passed over his face. He didn’t pull away—if anything, he leaned closer, so subtly I barely noticed until his shoulder brushed mine.
“That’s the trick, isn’t it?” he said softly. “Surviving it. Some days I’m not sure I did. Sometimes I still wake up reaching for her, and the empty space beside me feels like a hole that’s never going to close.”
He glanced at the photographs scattered across the mantle. “People think it gets easier. It doesn’t. It just gets… familiar. You learn to live with the ache. You stop expecting it to go away. You let it teach you something, or you drown in it.”
The words landed like stones in my chest. I swallowed hard. “Did you ever think about… trying again? Letting someone in?”
He laughed, low and humorless. “That’s the second trick. Letting yourself want again. I spent years thinking moving on meant betraying her memory. Punished myself, kept people at arm’s length. Safer than risking anything real.”
His thumb brushed slow circles over my knee. Too gentle to be an accident. Too steady to ignore. My nerves lit up, and I hated myself for noticing.
“Doesn’t sound very safe now,” I muttered, staring at his hand.
For the first time, his mouth quirked into something almost like a smile. “You’ve got my number, kid.”
I snorted, half laugh, half breathless. “Great. I’ll add ‘armchair philosopher with boundary issues’ to your résumé.”
“Put it under ‘skills,’” he said dryly, though his thumb never stopped moving.
Heat coiled low in my stomach. I forced myself to look at him, really look: the curve of his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes, the pulse jumping in his throat. His pain was written in every line of him, and still I wanted things I had no right to.
“How do you know when it’s okay to want more?” I whispered.
He turned fully, eyes bright, his hand sliding higher on my thigh. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just get tired of being lonely.”
The air between us was charged, heavy, inevitable. I could smell salt, coffee, and something distinctly him.
“What about you?” he asked, voice rougher now. “Did you ever let yourself love someone, after she was gone?”
I shook my head. “I think I forgot how. Or maybe I never learned. Every time I get close, it feels like stealing something that doesn’t belong to me.”
His grip on my thigh tightened, and I gasped.
“That’s grief talking,” he said, fierce now. “Not truth. You deserve more than memories and regret.”
I scoffed, trying for humor and failing. “Sure. Sign me up for the ‘well-adjusted human’ package.”
“You deserve to be wanted,” Kepler pressed, ignoring the joke. “To be cared for. To have someone fight for you instead of walking away when things get complicated.”
“I guess.” The words were weak, but they slipped out anyway.
Kepler stood slowly, his hand sliding from my thigh with deliberate reluctance. “There’s something I want to show you,” he said, his voice low. “Something that belonged to your mother.”
He held out his hand, palm up, waiting. An invitation I could take or leave.
I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and callused, and he led me through the cottage toward the back hallway.
The floorboards creaked under our feet, and I was hyperaware of everything—the way his shoulders moved as he walked ahead of me, the heat of his palm against mine, the way my heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it.
The bedroom was small, dominated by a double bed with a weathered wooden headboard. Afternoon light filtered through gauze curtains, casting everything in golden hues. The space smelled like him—salt and cedar and something warm and masculine that made my head spin.
“Here,” he said, releasing my hand to open the top drawer of an old dresser. But he didn't move away immediately. Instead, he stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his bare back, close enough that if I lifted my hand, I could trace the line of that old scar across his ribs.
He pulled out a small jewelry box, worn velvet faded with age. “She gave this to me before the wedding,” he said, turning to face me. “Said she wanted someone in the family to have it, someone who would understand what it meant.”
The space between us had shrunk to mere inches. I could see the pulse jumping in his throat, could count the silver threads in his chest hair, could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek as he opened the box.
Inside was a simple gold locket, tarnished with age.
“She said it was her grandmother's,” Kepler continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Said she'd always meant to give it to you, but she was waiting for the right moment.”
His fingers brushed mine as he lifted the locket from its cushion, the contact sending electricity up my arm. “She wanted you to have something that connected you to the family. To her. To all of us.”
“It is beautiful.”
“Try it on,” he said, moving behind me. “Let me help. ”
I felt the cool metal of the chain against my throat as he lifted it over my head, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck as he settled it into place. His touch lingered there, thumb tracing the edge of my hairline in a caress that made me shiver.
“Perfect,” he murmured, breath warm against my ear. “She would have loved seeing you wear it.”
The locket settled against my chest, and suddenly we were too close—close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his eyes, the way his smile lines deepened when he looked at me, the steady rhythm of his breath just inches from my own.
“Kepler,” I whispered, not sure what I was asking for—permission, distance, something I couldn’t name.
His hands came up, gentle as they framed my face, his thumbs brushing just under my jaw. “I know,” he said softly.
I looked around—realized with a jolt how intimate this all was. Kepler’s room. The bed behind me was unmade, still carrying the warmth of his sleep, the comfort of a life that had gone on, steady and grounded, long before I’d ever stumbled into it.
He saw my hesitation, the way I lingered awkwardly at the edge of the room. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” he said, voice low and rough with concern. “You can rest here if you want. The bed’s already warm. I won’t bother you.”
Part of me wanted to bolt—run from how easy it was to imagine sinking into that bed, his scent on the sheets, the hush of quiet safety. But exhaustion tugged at my bones, heavier than pride.
“I—thanks,” I managed, voice hoarse. “I haven’t... I don’t really sleep well these days.”
Kepler gave a small, understanding nod. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Rowan.” He gestured to the bed. “It’s just a nap. No strings, no expectations.”
I sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under my weight, and for a moment just let myself breathe, surrounded by his presence. Kepler sat down beside me—not too close, just close enough that I could feel the heat of him radiating through the space between us.
Without thinking, I lay back, eyes drifting shut.
It was easier than I expected. The bed smelled like clean sheets, sea air, and something distinctly Kepler—salt and soap and warmth.
I let myself relax into the comfort, the kind that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being held together by someone solid.
A moment later, the bed dipped as Kepler stretched out behind me, pulling the covers up with slow, deliberate care. His arm slid around my waist, steady and protective, not demanding. The intimacy of it—his size, the certainty in his touch—was overwhelming and grounding at the same time.
His voice rumbled against the back of my neck, gentle and amused. “Don’t tense up, kid. It’s just sleep. Promise I’ll behave.”
But the way his hand settled on my stomach, fingers spreading wide, was anything but casual.
It was possessive and safe all at once, and I found myself melting back against him, letting go just enough to breathe.
I could feel his breath in my hair, the scratch of his beard against my skin, the slow, comforting rhythm of his chest rising and falling behind me.
Kepler’s thumb stroked an idle, absentminded circle across the bare skin just above my waistband. Not overtly sexual—just enough to make me wonder, to make my breath catch, to make my cock twitch in anticipation. He had to feel it, the way my body tensed and relaxed against his.
“You all right?” he murmured, his voice a rumble in my ear. “You want me to stop?”