Chapter 31
Something about the ocean was off.
He knew what it was supposed to sound like—the steady crash of waves breaking against the shore, the slap of water against something solid—a hull or jetty—and the long hiss of foam dragging back over sand. Even in a storm, there was a rhythm to it, a pattern beneath the chaos.
But now, it was different.
The sound came in uneven bursts, too loud in one moment and too distant in the next, like something beneath the surface had forgotten how to breathe.
He tried to open his eyes, but salt burned immediately, sharp and blinding.
The next wave hit him before he could orient himself, slamming into his chest hard enough to knock what little air he had left from his lungs.
Instinct took over. He twisted, coughed, dragged in a breath that only pulled more seawater down his throat, and then choked as panic snapped into place.
His hands hit the sandy bottom. It shifted under his grip—nothing he could trust—but it was something.
He clawed at it anyway, fingers digging in, slipping as the undertow dragged at his legs, trying to draw him into its depths.
Another wave rolled over him, heavier this time, pressing him down and filling his ears with a roar that swallowed everything else.
For a moment, he lost all sense of direction.
Up didn’t feel like up. Down didn’t feel like down.
The ocean closed in around him, heavy and insistent, like it didn’t understand why he fought against its strength.
Like it thought he belonged there.
His chest burned, hot and urgent, and something in him refused to give in.
He pushed up, failed, then tried again. The next wave came in lower, sliding around him instead of over him, and it was enough.
He got one knee under him, then the other, forcing his head above the surface as he sucked in another ragged breath that tore at his throat.
Air hit his lungs hard and wrong, and he gagged on what he’d swallowed, spitting seawater as his body struggled to clear it.
As he pushed on, the ground beneath him grew firmer, less treacherous with every inch he gained, and he focused on that change—on the simple act of moving forward.
He crawled until the water stopped reaching him, and even then, he didn’t think it would last. When he finally collapsed, it was face down, half sprawled on damp sand tangled with clumps of seaweed, his chest heaving as he gulped in one breath after another.
Each hurt, raw and scraping, but came easier than the last.
Out beyond the breakers, the storm didn’t stop, but its intensity faded—the violence pulling back just enough to notice.
Waves still broke along the shore, but without the same force, like whatever had driven them had lost interest. Farther out, lightning flickered low along the horizon, followed a few seconds later by a muted roll of thunder that carried across the water.
The wind cut through him, heavy with salt and the chill of an October night, cool enough to bite but not deep enough to numb. It left him shivering, his body slow to accept he’d made it out of the ocean that had tried to claim him.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at an angry sky of shifting gray while rain struck his face in scattered drops. His clothes clung to him, soaked and heavy, every inch of him too cold and too aware all at once.
Alive.
The word formed slowly, carrying more disbelief than relief, and it settled uneasily in his chest. His eyes closed briefly as the realization took hold.
Panic pressed in first, confusion right behind it, but beneath both was something worse—a hollow absence, like searching for something you’d always had and finding nothing there.
Frowning, he pushed against the mental wall, trying to latch onto something solid.
His name should have been easy. It wasn’t.
The harder he tried to pin it down, the more it slipped, leaving behind only fragments that refused to stay long enough to make sense.
A road flickered and vanished. A door. A voice he couldn’t place. Nothing held.
When he dragged a hand across his face, sand ground against his skin, the salt stinging as it worked into the rawness around his mouth and eyes. His fingers trembled, leaving streaks of grit and seawater behind.
He should understand where he had been, how he ended up in the water, and why his body felt pushed beyond its limits. Instead, there was nothing but scraps that refused to come together.
Raising his head, he squinted through the rain and glanced around. A light emerged through the mist along the shoreline, cutting weakly through the rain. A person headed straight toward him, steady and sure.
Something tightened low in his chest. Not fear but recognition. It hit fast and hard, a reaction that didn’t come with explanation, and his pulse kicked unevenly.
A man stopped a few feet away. Up close, the details sharpened—the wet strands of hair plastered back from his face, a raincoat pulled tight over broad shoulders, heavy boots braced in the sand.
The wind tugged at the coat, the hood shoved back and useless against it, rain slicking everything it touched.
Sharp eyes locked onto him with a focus that felt like more than concern. There was no surprise there. Only something else—something he couldn’t quite place.
“You okay?”
The question cut through the rush of wind and surf.
An attempt to answer was hoarse and buried under the roar of the surf. He took another breath, slower this time, trying to steady it.
The man stepped closer, his gaze focused. “Can you stand?”
“I… yeah.” It wasn’t convincing, but it was all he had. It took effort to roll to his knees.
“Easy.”
A solid hand closed around his arm. The contact sent a strange jolt through him—not pain or alarm. Something else. Something that coiled low in his gut before he could make sense of it.
“Come on,” the man said. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He didn’t argue—just let himself be pulled upright, the world tilting for a moment before it leveled out.
“Can you walk?”
He swallowed past the rawness of his throat. “I think so.”
The man studied him for a beat, then nodded once, like he’d made a decision.
“It’s not too far. Lean on me.”
Before he could argue, his rescuer stepped in closer and put an arm around him, pulling him in for support. The sudden shift threw him off balance, but the man adjusted without hesitation, taking his weight as if it didn’t matter. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
He didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. The ground dipped under him as they started moving, his steps unsteady.
“Stay with me.”
He focused on that—on putting one foot in front of the other, the solid presence beside him, and keeping the blurred edges creeping into his vision from closing in.
The wind cut across them as they made their way up the beach, the crash of the waves blending with the dull rush of rain and the rough rhythm of his own breathing. “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
That single word shouldn’t have been comforting coming from a stranger, but it was.
He stumbled, but the muscular arm around his waist didn’t let him fall. After a few more steps, he forced out another question. “How… how did you find me out here?”
The man hesitated for a moment. “Call it a feeling.”
He didn’t question it again. Didn’t have the energy to. He just leaned into the support and kept moving.
It wasn’t really a choice. It felt inevitable.
The sweeping beam from the lighthouse cut through the rain and darkness in steady intervals, guiding Brett toward the cottage the same way it had guided sailors along the coast for over two centuries.
When they reached the cottage, the worst of the wind broke against the stone walls, dulling its force as he pushed the door open and got them both inside.
The western edge of Hurricane Ruth was already pulling back out to sea, but it still lashed Driftwood Pointe with heavy rain, rough surf, and wind strong enough to rattle the old cottage.
Both cell phone and landline services were down, which wasn’t unusual during storms like this, though somehow the power had held.
They’d gotten lucky. If Ruth had tracked farther inland before turning, the damage along the coast would’ve been a hell of a lot worse.
Despite its age, the cottage offered a secure and dry refuge.
Its warmth from earlier, however, had thinned to almost nothing.
The fire in the stone hearth was now a bed of dim embers, barely giving off heat.
It was after ten p.m., and he’d been getting ready to turn in when something in the tide shifted—in a way he’d learned not to ignore.
Not the storm itself. Nor the usual churn of wind and water.
Something he couldn’t see or name, but knew was there.
It’d pulled him down to the shoreline without explanation, a quiet insistence he’d long since stopped questioning. And now that he had the stranger inside, that same pull hadn’t let go.
He set it aside. For now, the injured man needed attention.
“Sit,” Brett said, guiding him toward the couch.
Without waiting for compliance, he eased him down, keeping a hand on the man long enough to make sure he didn’t tip sideways. Up close, his condition was worse than Brett had realized—skin pale from exposure, lips tinged blue, and hands shaking hard enough to be noticeable even now.
“You’re freezing.” After removing his rain gear, he went straight to work, reaching for the hem of the man’s shirt. “We need to get you out of these.”
There was no resistance. No strength left for it.
“Easy.” He stripped away the soaked shirt, then the rest of the man’s clothes until only damp underwear remained. After a brief hesitation, he removed those too. Wet fabric hit the floor in a heavy pile, sand shaking loose with it.
Brett grabbed a thick blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around the man, tucking it in tight. “Stay awake. Okay?”