Chapter 37
Iwake up before the alarm goes off, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light as I stare up at the ceiling for a moment before the memory of last night comes rushing back.
May.
The image is so clear it almost feels like it’s still happening—the glow of the lights in the backyard, the warmth of the fire beside us, the way she looked up at me just before she reached for my neck and pulled me down toward her.
I let out a slow breath and close my eyes for a moment, my hand drifting to the back of my neck where her fingers had been. No matter how many times I imagined that moment over the last few weeks, none of those versions came close to the real thing.
The real thing had been softer, warmer, and somehow completely natural, like the two of us had been moving toward it for longer than either of us realized.
A quiet whine near the door pulls me back to the room, and when I glance over, I see Skye already sitting there watching me patiently, her tail thumping lightly against the floor as if she’s been waiting for me to get up.
“Alright,” I murmur, pushing the covers back. “I’m up.”
I make my way downstairs, the house still cool from the early-morning air. In the kitchen, I turn the coffee maker on before heading to the back door to let Skye out into the yard.
The yard is quiet in that calm way it always is this early, the ocean somewhere beyond the cliff sending its steady rhythm through the air, but my eyes drift to the edge of the patio, where May and I stood last night.
The memory of it spreads through my chest again, warm and steady, because I can still see her standing in front of me, still feel the way her hand slipped into mine.
I had spent weeks telling myself to be patient with her, letting things grow slowly instead of rushing anything, reminding myself that she had just arrived here and deserved the time to settle into this place before anything complicated started between us.
And then she kissed me.
The thought alone pulls a smile across my face.
Finally.
My gaze drifts across the yard toward her house, the windows still dark in the early hour, and for a moment I imagine walking over there, sneaking inside, waking her up, and kissing her good morning.
The idea settles somewhere deep in my chest before I shake my head lightly and pour my coffee into my tumbler. I have to get to work before I go and do something completely unhinged.
I let Skye back inside, grab my gear bag from the chair near the door, and step out into the cool morning air, tossing the bag into the back seat of the truck before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Before starting the engine, my eyes drift, landing on her front door. The same place where we stood a few hours ago, neither of us quite ready to say goodnight.
I reach for my phone and type the message before I can talk myself out of it.
Me:
I wish I could see you before I leave for work, but I’m going in early for a 12-hour shift. I’ll be counting down the minutes until I get to kiss you again.
I hit send, set the phone down beside me, and start the truck.
The station is only a few minutes away, and the building comes into view just as the sky begins to shift from dark to that pale gray-blue that always comes right before sunrise.
I park the truck, grab my bag, and step inside, the familiar smell of coffee and diesel greeting me as soon as I walk through the bay.
A couple of the guys call out a quick good morning as I pass. I toss my bag into my locker, then make my way into the engine room to check the equipment while the rest of the crew moves around the bay, preparing for the day.
Everything feels lighter than usual.
Like something inside me finally settled into place.
We’ve already run a call by the time the morning settles into its normal rhythm, just a fender bender that didn’t require our assistance, and we’re heading back toward the station when my phone buzzes inside the pocket of my turnout pants.
I dig it out while the engine rolls down the street, my chest tightening just slightly when I see her name lighting up the screen.
May.
I open the message, and the second I read it, a slow grin spreads across my face.
May:
You should have woken me up.
For a moment, I sit there staring at the screen, leaning back against the seat with the ridiculous thought that maybe I should have.
God knows I wanted to.
The morning at the station moves as it usually does after a few early calls—gear checked, trucks cleaned up, coffee refilled more times than anyone wants to admit.
Cruz and I are leaning against the workbench in the bay, arguing about what we should grab for lunch later, when the captain’s voice cuts across the room.
“Holloway. Cruz.”
Cruz and I both push off the workbench and straighten up.
“You’re needed.”
He walks toward us, holding a radio in one hand.
“Dispatch just got a call about a vessel drifting toward the rocks. Possible injured passenger onboard. You’ll be joining Estrada, Dinsmore, Baldonado, and Vo to stabilize the situation until the Coast Guard can get there.”
Lunch is forgotten the second the details sink in. My focus narrows to the job in front of us.
“The crew on duty is currently tied up assisting a vessel out near Otter Rock,” Captain Brewer continues. “And the Newport crew is out on a capsized boat, so this one’s ours until they can break free.”
Cruz and I exchange a quick look.
“Copy that,” I say.
We’re already moving before the captain finishes turning away.
Cruz heads toward the lockers while I grab the gear we keep ready for marine response calls. Not every department runs a marine unit, but along this stretch of coast, it comes with the territory. Fishing boats, charter tours, and tourists who underestimate the ocean. Calls like this come in often.
The training takes time too. Cold-water survival.
Stabilizing vessels in rough surf. Getting people off boats that don’t want to stay upright while lines and gear swing around your feet.
All of us have trained with the Coast Guard.
They’ve spent hours teaching us how to keep things under control until they are able to arrive with the heavier rescue equipment when needed.
Most of the time it’s routine.
A stalled boat. Someone who slipped and broke a wrist. A fisherman who pushed a little too far offshore.
But the ocean doesn’t always stay routine. Sometimes it turns on you without much warning.
When Cruz and I step back into the bay, Estrada, Dinsmore, Baldonado, and Vo are already loading the last of the equipment into the truck.
“Let’s move,” Estrada says.
We climb in, the engine roaring to life a second later.
As soon as we pull out of the station, the ocean opens up in front of us. Even from the road, I can see the swell rolling in, long gray walls of water rising and falling beyond the harbor mouth. It’s rough out there today.
But it’s nothing we haven’t worked in before.
It’s just another call.
We clear the harbor mouth, and the swells are already bigger than they looked from shore.
The rescue boat climbs over a swell and drops hard on the other side, spray kicking up over the bow. Estrada keeps the engine steady while Baldonado stands near the stern watching out for the distressed vessel.
“There,” Dinsmore says, pointing off the port side.
The fishing boat comes into view between the swells, drifting sideways in the water. Even from a distance, I can see the problem immediately. The bow keeps swinging toward the rocks every time a wave pushes through, the captain fighting the wheel even though it’s clear the boat isn’t responding.
“Motor’s dead,” Cruz mutters beside me.
“Looks like it,” I say.
Estrada guides us closer, easing the rescue boat alongside as carefully as the conditions allow. The two vessels rise and fall at different rhythms, one lifting while the other drops, the gap between them widening and closing with every swell.
“Easy… easy…” Estrada calls.
A man appears at the rail of the fishing boat, gripping the side with both hands.
“Engine won’t start!” he shouts over the wind. “We’ve got someone hurt!”
Cruz steps forward immediately.
“Where are they?”
“In the back!”
I glance past him and see a passenger slumped near the stern bench, another man crouched beside him trying to hold a towel against his forehead.
“Alright,” I call out. “We’re gonna stabilize you first.”
Baldonado tosses a line across the short gap between the boats. The captain catches it, his hands shaking slightly as he loops it around a cleat.
The decks are slick with seawater. Every few seconds, a swell rolls through, and both boats lurch again, the gap between them shifting just enough to keep everyone on edge.
Cruz moves toward the stern to help the injured passenger while Dinsmore keeps a hand on the rail, watching the boats' movements.
“Line’s not holding,” Baldonado says.
The rope slackens for a second as another swell lifts the fishing boat.
“I got it,” I say, stepping forward.
I brace one hand against the rail and lean across the gap, grabbing the line to secure it properly before the next surge pulls it loose.
“Hold her steady,” I call back.
“Doing my best,” Estrada answers.
Another swell rolls under us, lifting the rescue boat sharply before dropping it again. The fishing vessel tilts in the opposite direction, the two boats shifting out of rhythm.
I pull the rope tight and begin looping it around the cleat.
“Almost—”
The wave hits harder than the last.
The fishing boat jerks sideways as the swell crashes against the hull, the deck tilting suddenly beneath my boots. For a split second, everything moves at once, the line snapping tight in my hands, the rescue boat lifting, and the rail slamming against my hip.
My footing slips on the wet deck.
The world tilts.
And then I’m gone.