Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Tom
The wind changes before noon.
It rolls in off the water heavier than expected, pressing against my shirt and lifting the fine hairs along my forearms. I straighten from the rack of fireworks and angle my face into it, measuring the weight of it the way I’ve measured smoke for most of my adult life.
I crouch again and adjust the launch tube a few degrees toward the harbor. The metal is already warm from the sun. I move my hands automatically, checking sandbags, tightening the brace, and tracing the fuse line twice. I’ve learned not to trust “good enough.”
Behind me, gravel shifts.
I know who it is before I turn.
Melanie Carter walks like she carries a town on her shoulders. Even in sandals, her steps are decisive. Her gaze moves constantly as if she’s cataloging every possible point of failure.
Daniel stays slightly behind her, but not passively. He angles his body so he stands between her and the crates without thinking about it. It’s instinctive. Protective in a quiet way most people wouldn’t notice.
They don’t touch. That’s what hits me first.
Couples married as long as they have been usually lean into each other without realizing it. They share weight. They stand hip to hip. These two stand close enough that the space between them feels intentional.
I rise to my feet.
“Wind’s stronger off the water than forecast,” I tell them. “We’re shifting the perimeter back.”
Daniel nods once and moves immediately for the rope line. He trusts my assessment. I file the information away.
Melanie steps closer to the rack, squinting toward the fuse as if proximity will give her control over it.
She goes still under my hand, her breath catching sharp before it drags in deeper, slower, the tight line across her shoulders easing as the air leaves her again.
The tension I felt when I touched her gives way beneath my palm, not all at once, but enough that I feel the difference in the way her back settles against my hand.
I don’t move.
My fingers spread slightly, adjusting to the shift, holding her where I put her without pressing her further, just enough contact that she feels it. Her weight shifts back a fraction, into the space behind her.
My thumb slides once along the line of her spine, slow, testing, and her muscles respond in a small release, her breath slipping out on a quiet exhale makes her shoulders drop.
Her breathing evens out under my hand, each inhale deeper than the last, each exhale loosens her a little more.
I keep my hand there, firm, unyielding, until the last of that braced tension drains out of her and she stands the way she should have from the start, exactly where I put her. “Be careful,” I order.
How long has it been since she’s been steadied by someone? Too long.
I don’t know how I know. I just do.
Daniel’s eyes drop to where my hand rests and then lift to my face. There’s no anger in them. No challenge but a flicker of something thoughtful.
He bends to lift one of the heavier crates. His right shoulder compensates when he straightens. It’s subtle enough for most people to miss it.
I don’t.
“Switch,” I say.
He pauses, crate halfway up.
For a moment, I see the internal calculation play across his expression and his reflex to carry more than necessary.
I hold his gaze. His pupils dilate and my cock stirs behind my zipper.
He exhales and hands the crate over.
Our fingers brush. His hands are strong. And there’s tension there that has nothing to do with the crate. I take it from him and set it down where it belongs. When I straighten, he’s still watching me, as if he’s trying to decide whether I challenged him or relieved him.
“You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
He lets out a short breath that might almost be a laugh. “Been doing it a while.”
“Habit doesn’t make necessity.”
Melanie’s gaze moves from him to me and back again. She’s reading something in the exchange. I can see it in the way her lips part and her throat works when she swallows.
A little girl darts too close to the tape line. I step forward automatically, crouching so I’m eye level with her.
“Wrong side,” I tell her gently, guiding her shoulders. “Fireworks don’t care how brave you are.”
She giggles and runs back toward her parents.
When I stand again, I catch Melanie looking at me as if she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.
Daniel shifts closer to her without thinking. Their shoulders brush this time. Neither pulls away. Something tightens low in my belly. I’ve seen this before. Couples who survived but never relearned how to reach for each other afterward. Strength turned inward. Distance mistaken for stability.
They don’t need saving. They need anchoring.
The realization settles into me with a weight I recognize. Part of me steps into chaos because someone has to. The part which takes control when panic starts spreading.
“Stay behind the line tonight,” I say. “Both of you.”
They nod at the same time.
For a moment, the three of us stand close enough so I can feel the heat coming off them in the July sun. The wind shifts again, carrying smoke from a nearby grill.
Melanie’s pulse beats visibly at the base of her throat. Daniel’s jaw flexes as if he’s holding something back. I want to hug them both to me and take them inside.
Instead, I turn back to the launch racks.
One of the mortar tubes is already aligned perfectly, but I crouch beside it anyway, tightening a bracket that doesn’t need tightening.
The couple behind me falls quiet again. Not my fire to manage.
Mine comes later.
I’ve watched fireworks from rooftops in cities that never quieted down. From motel parking lots off highways where no one knew my name. The sound always felt temporary there. Something to pass through.
This town feels different.
The smoke drifts through trees and settles along Harbor Road like it belongs. Porch lights flicker. Windows glow. People call each other by first names without looking.
I parked the RV at the edge of Pine Hollow two months ago, telling myself I’d stay until the restlessness burned off.
Truth is, I didn’t know where else to point the nose of it.
Northwick Cove wasn’t on a plan. It was just the next right turn.
Now I find myself knowing which house makes blueberry scones on holidays and which porch light stays on late. I know the Turner boys walk too close together when they’re thinking and that Sam always stands slightly behind Henry when he laughs.
I know this town holds its people close, even when their relationships don’t fit neat lines.
And now, watching the Carters, I understand something I didn’t expect.
I don’t want to be passing through anymore.
The realization settles in my chest heavier than it should.
This town has its own way of loving. I’ve been here long enough to see it.
The Turner boys don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are.
And Sam, Henry, and Judith move through town with the quiet certainty of people who stopped apologizing for choosing each other.
Northwick Cove doesn’t seem interested in forcing love into tidy shapes.
That doesn’t mean the Carters are looking for anyone else inside theirs. Even so, the Daddy in me won’t stop whispering, “They need an anchor,” and every instinct I’ve got says I could be it… if they ever wanted one.
While I work on my task, people start gathering and pitching in, setting up tables, putting up decorations.
A trio I recognize from the hardware store, her tucked between them, one man carrying a cooler while the other keeps a steady hand at the small of her back.
Then another trio, laughter already spilling ahead of them, the woman swatting one man away while the other leans in to press a quick kiss to her temple.
Diana from the B&B arrives with her men, all of them moving like they share the same rhythm, like they’ve done this walk together a hundred times.
A little further down, the guys from the garage flock around a feisty redhead, her grin sharp, her shoulders brushing theirs as they flank her without crowding, like they know exactly how close she’ll let them get.
It doesn’t stop there.
Pairs, threesomes, foursomes… easy combinations that don’t draw a second glance. Hands finding familiar places. Bodies leaning without hesitation. No one explaining. No one asking permission to be what they are out here.
The yard fills. Voices rise. Someone strings up lights along the railing, soft bulbs flickering to life one by one as the sun dips lower, gold bleeding into amber, then into something quieter, deeper.
By the time I’m satisfied with my own work, the last of the daylight has slipped behind the water, and darkness has settled fully over the harbor. I reach for the firing control and trigger the first rack.
A loud boom rolls across the harbor, heavy enough to rattle glass and tighten the muscles in Daniel Carter’s shoulders before he can hide it.
It’s subtle, the kind of reaction most people would miss. His shoulders rise a fraction too high. His jaw locks. His weight shifts like he’s bracing for something he can’t see yet.
Melanie sees it.
She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t make a scene. She simply steps closer and slides her hand into his.
The second explosion blooms silver overhead. Smoke drifts low, carried by the wind I’ve been tracking all day. It curls between houses, threads through the bunting, settles along the street like fog.
Daniel doesn’t look at the sky.
His gaze moves instead, cutting across the crowd, measuring distance, counting bodies, tracking space like he’s placing people where they should be. It’s the hypervigilance of someone who has seen combat.
Melanie turns toward him instead of the fireworks. She shifts into his space, so their shoulders touch. Her other hand comes up to his chest, fingers spreading lightly over his sternum as if she’s trying to touch something deeper than skin.
The gesture is intimate, and I look away for a beat.