Chapter 34
Julian woke beneath the weight pressing against his chest.
For one disoriented second, panic flared. Then a rough purr vibrated through the room, and he blinked down at Orion sprawled across him like he owned the bed—and the entire cottage.
“You again,” he muttered, his voice rough with sleep.
The black cat opened one golden eye but didn’t move.
Julian frowned. That morning, he could’ve sworn the white marking had been on Orion’s right ear. Now it sat on the left.
He reached down until his fingers brushed the blue collar around the cat’s neck and checked the name stitched into the nylon.
Orion.
A strange chill moved through him. Either he’d remembered wrong, or the doctor had missed a brain injury when he’d examined Julian earlier.
He rubbed a hand over his face and glanced toward the bedroom door.
It was still closed. He couldn’t remember if Orion had already been in the room before he’d fallen asleep.
Brett could’ve checked on him while he slept, and the cat slipped inside then.
Or maybe Orion had learned to open doors—that possibility wouldn’t have surprised Julian.
Stranger things had already happened today—the brief flashes that felt like memories whenever he touched certain objects and the man in the park who’d disappeared earlier.
Outside the narrow windows, dusk had fallen over Driftwood Pointe. The last traces of sunlight faded from the western sky while a heavy silence settled through the room, broken only by Orion’s steady purring against his chest.
His body still ached, but the bruised soreness had dulled while he slept. The mattress beneath him remained warm, heavy blankets tangled around his legs, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, lying in Brett’s bed felt dangerously close to coming home.
That realization sat with him for several seconds.
Home.
The word should have felt empty, considering he couldn’t remember where he belonged.
Instead, something inside him reacted to this place.
The stone walls. The distant crash of water against the rocks.
And the faint scent of cedar and old smoke lingering from the unlit potbelly stove in the corner, similar to the one in the kitchen.
Like he’d been there before.
An unexpected urge pulled his attention toward a rolltop desk across under the windows. His gaze moved to the upper shelf, searching for something he couldn’t explain, until it landed on a worn brass compass resting beside a wooden lighthouse figurine, partially hidden in shadow.
His pulse skipped.
He recognized that compass and was sure he’d held it before, despite not remembering ever seeing it before today. How could that be?
Without touching it, he somehow knew there was a small gouge near the ornate S carved into the brass rim. He also knew that if he turned it over, there would be an inscription on the back about the tide whispering you home.
Another certainty emerged—it had belonged to Brett’s family for generations.
Julian stared at the compass, confusion and disbelief tangling inside him. There was no reason he should know any of that.
He shifted beneath Orion’s weight, intending to check whether the inscription was really there, but a knock at the bedroom door stopped him cold.
“Julian?”
A strange flash of guilt moved through him, as if he’d almost been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Yeah?”
The door opened a few inches, and Brett took a step inside before leaning against the frame.
Soft light from the hallway outlined him, and Julian’s chest did something strange at the sight of him standing there in jeans, thick socks, and a forest-green Henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms.
“You alive in there?” Brett asked.
“Barely. Your cat’s trying to crush my lungs.”
Orion lifted his head, looking offended.
A grin tugged at Brett’s mouth. “He likes you. Which is annoying because he treats me like I’m a slave.”
He scratched behind Orion’s white-tipped ear before nudging the cat aside and sitting up. “What time is it?”
“About five thirty.” Brett nodded toward the bathroom across the hall. “Figured you might want a shower. Then maybe we can get something to eat. I picked my truck up from the mechanic while you were sleeping, so we don’t have to walk.”
His stomach picked that moment to growl. A hot shower and then dinner sounded incredible.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
“I put your clean clothes on the bathroom counter. Tomorrow, we can go to the store and get you a few things since most of my clothes will hang off you.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Brett pushed away from the doorway. “Take your time.”
Julian watched him disappear down the hall before dragging both hands through his hair.
Nothing about this situation should have felt normal.
And yet somehow being there with Brett already did.
An hour later, Brett parked his truck outside what he said was one of the oldest buildings on Harbor Street.
The two-story structure looked as if it had survived centuries of storms without ever considering collapse—timeworn clapboard siding, a wide front porch, and warm amber light streaming through the windows onto the cobblestone street.
A hand-painted wooden sign swayed overhead.
HEX & HEARTH
Window boxes overflowing with rosemary, lavender, and late-season flowers lined the front beneath collected pieces of sea glass pressed into the sills. Sitting atop the roof, a seasoned raven-shaped weather vane turned lazily in the wind.
The moment Julian stepped out of the truck, warning bells sounded in his head hard enough to make him pause.
This building wasn’t just a pub—it was a living entity with a purpose of its own, one that held secrets. He didn’t sense danger, but instinct warned him to tread carefully anyway.
“You okay?” Brett asked, stopping beside him.
He kept staring at the entrance. “I think I’ve been here before.”
The other man went still for half a second before recovering. “You remember it?”
“No.” Frustration crept into the word. “Not really. It’s more like…” He let out a sharp exhale. “I don’t know.”
Brett studied him another moment, then jerked his head toward the front door. “Come on. Food first. Existential crises after.”
Inside, warmth wrapped around Julian. The pub opened into something that felt hidden from the rest of the world, dimly lit by candles, old-fashioned lamps, and the fire crackling inside the massive stone hearth along the far wall.
The aroma of wood smoke, whiskey, beeswax, and something savory simmering behind the bar drifted through the air beneath the low hum of blues music and quiet conversation.
Exposed wooden beams crossed overhead, hung with bundles of drying herbs, sea glass mobiles, iron lanterns, and old nautical oddities.
Along one wall stretched a long dark-wood bar worn smooth by decades of use.
Behind it, shelves climbed toward the ceiling, crowded with jewel-toned bottles, ceramic crocks, mason jars filled with dried plants, and handwritten labels Julian couldn’t quite make out from the entrance.
A black cat with a white patch between its eyes slept near the hearth without a care in the world.
What was it with this town and black cats marked with splashes of white?
Besides Orion and this one, there’d been another wandering through the police station earlier that looked like someone had dipped the tip of its tail into white paint.
Julian’s gaze swept over the mismatched chairs, old photographs pinned behind the bar, and an antique apothecary drawer unit tucked in one corner.
“I swear I know this place,” he murmured to himself.
That unsettling cognition followed him as he trailed Brett toward the far end of the bar and slid onto an empty stool beside him. He glanced around again, distracted by the restlessness crawling beneath his skin. When he turned back, a man stood across from them behind the bar.
Julian flinched, certain no one had been there a second ago.
The bartender had dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, sleeves rolled up to showcase muscular forearms, and intense eyes that seemed far too knowing.
He set a rich amber-colored drink with an orange peel and a smoking cinnamon stick in front of Julian. “Welcome back, Julian. It’s been a long time. Here’s your usual—a Blackwater Lantern.”
Every muscle in his body locked while Brett went still beside him.
“What?” He jerked upright so fast the barstool legs scraped across the floor loud enough to turn a few heads. One hand braced against the edge of the bar as he leaned toward the man. “How do you know me? Or what I drink?”
The bartender only watched him with an annoying calm.
Julian’s pulse pounded harder. “And what do you mean, welcome back? What does that even mean? When was I here?”
Still nothing.
“Answer me, damn it! What the fuck is going on?”
Julian turned toward Brett. “Who the hell is he?”
“Julian,” Brett said, tension roughening his voice. “This is Rowan Ashcroft. He’s one of the owners of this place.” Frowning, he turned his attention to the man behind the bar. “How do you know Julian?”
Instead of answering, Ashcroft sauntered toward the far end of the bar, where dozens of old photographs decorated the wall.
Julian exchanged a sharp look with Brett. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
Brett shook his head, a crease forming between his brows. “I honestly don’t know.”
That answer didn’t help.
Ashcroft removed one photograph from the wall before leisurely returning and handing it to Brett.
The moment Brett looked down at it, all color drained from his face.
A knot formed in Julian’s stomach. “What?”
Brett turned the photograph toward him, and Julian forgot how to breathe.
It was them—him and Brett standing together outside the lighthouse with their arms around each other like they belonged there. Like they belonged together.
Except the photograph itself was old. Not a few years old. Decades old. The once-white edges had faded yellow with time, and tiny cracks ran across the surface. But the two men in the picture looked exactly like them.
“No,” Julian whispered. His fingers shook as he grabbed the photo from Brett. “That’s impossible.”
Neither of them spoke for several long seconds before Brett looked at Ashcroft. “Explain this.”
The bartender dried an already clean glass with a towel, unbothered that both of them looked seconds away from losing their minds or reaching across the bar to pummel him.
“It isn’t my story to tell.”
Julian laughed once in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
Ashcroft met his stare without the slightest sign of concern. “Your issue isn’t with me.”
“Then who the hell is it with?”
“Dane Prentice.”