5. Chapter 5
Mila
By our fourth dawn paddle, the rhythm has almost started to feel normal.
Coffee, kayaks, the long glide across glassy water, and Jared’s voice carrying easily over the stillness.
Sometimes it’s jokes about Pete’s biscuits.
Sometimes it’s nothing at all, just the steady splash of paddles.
Either way, it’s dangerously easy to forget that this is supposed to be a professional arrangement.
This morning, though, the survey isn’t going smoothly.
“False crawl,” I announce, crouching low to study the sand. The tracks snake up from the tide line, veer toward the dunes, then double back with no nest to show for it.
Jared shades his eyes with one hand, scanning the beach like he’ll magically spot eggs I somehow missed. “So… a turtle took a midnight stroll and changed her mind?”
“Basically,” I sigh, tugging my clipboard out of its sleeve. “No nest. No data point. Just wasted effort.”
He crouches beside me, the heat of him far too close for comfort. “Does this mess up your whole study?”
“Not completely,” I admit. “But it muddies the results. Funding boards like clean data sets. False crawls make everything look sloppy.”
Jared’s quiet for a beat, then reaches over and steadies the clipboard before I snap it in half. “Hey. Science is messy. It’s supposed to be. Doesn’t mean the work’s worthless.”
I glance at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone. His eyes are serious, not teasing. He means it.
Something in my chest loosens, and before I can stop myself, I confess, “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. This is an important project for me.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Mila. You’re doing an amazing job. You are amazing.”
I let him pull me up, my pulse skittering. Maybe he means it. Maybe he’s just being kind. Either way, the words land deeper than I want them to.
We mark the false crawl, log the coordinates, and head back toward the kayaks. The sun’s climbing higher now, gilding the marsh grass. Jared shoulders the measuring pole without being asked, like carrying my gear is second nature.
"You know what helps with research stress?" Jared asks as we load the kayaks.
"Peer-reviewed studies and replicated results?"
He laughs. "I was going to say Pete's lemon bars, but sure, let's go with your answer."
Despite my frustration with the false crawl, I smile. "Your solution does sound more immediately gratifying."
"That's because it is." He stows the measuring pole and turns to face me, squinting against the morning sun. "Look, I know this grant means everything to you. But you can't let one false crawl make you spiral. You've documented—what, six successful nests already?"
"Seven," I correct automatically.
"Seven nests. That's incredible, Mila. The data's building. The project's working." He pauses, and his voice softens. "You're allowed to be proud of what you've accomplished so far instead of only worrying about what could go wrong."
I want to argue, to explain that in competitive research, "good enough" isn't good enough. But the way he's looking at me—steady and confident and completely sure I'm capable—makes the words catch in my throat.
"When did you get so wise about marine biology research?" I ask lightly.
"I'm not wise about research. I'm wise about you." He says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I've been watching you work for weeks now. You're brilliant at this, Mila. Trust yourself the way I trust you."
My chest tightens with something warm and terrifying. Because somewhere between biscuits on the dock and deflating jellyfish and false crawls, Jared Tuck has started to really see me. Not as Mandy's little sister or a temporary research visitor, but as me .
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For this. For all of it."
"Anytime, Dr. Aronson." He grins and pushes his kayak toward the water. "Now come on. I promised York I'd bring him a cool shell, and I am not disappointing that kid."
We paddle back in comfortable silence, the sun warming my shoulders and Jared's steady presence just a few feet away. The false crawl still nags at the back of my mind, but it doesn't consume me the way it might have an hour ago.
By the time we reach the marina, I'm already planning tomorrow's survey route, thinking about the nests that are thriving, and wondering if Pete has any lemon bars left.
And maybe—just maybe—starting to believe that I really can do this.