Wind sails through the open door behind us, scattering raindrops across the floor. And somewhere inside me, a half-remembered part of me—small, shriveled from neglect—stirs awake. Craving the light. Craving something only he can give.
His thumb glides down my cheek. Absorbing the rain. He’s closer than he’s ever been.
“Ellie,” he whispers.
And I know there’s no going back. Nothing will ever feel as good as the weight of his eyes on me. Drenched in his stare. A shiver slips down my spine, and his eyes darken, devouring me—a nocturnal animal. Hungry, starved. Near death.
I’m gasping for air, staring at the soft shape of his mouth. And there’s hardly any space between us, hardly any reasons left to keep us apart.
My legs sway beneath me. Time falters.
And he watches me—like he’s memorizing the raindrops on my lashes. Like he can’t breathe. Like he’s been holding his breath since the day I washed ashore, fighting some quiet need inside him. And there’s nothing he wants more, nothing he wouldn’t do, to finally kiss me.
His thumb glides softly over my upper lip. And then his mouth brushes mine.
Delicately, patiently, fracturing all my doubts. All the seconds I stared at him in the garden, unable to look away. All the years I dreamed of the island, certain I’d never see it again. All the mistakes, the near misses—every one of them brought me back here.
The island. The Atlantic.
Time slipping off course, defying the stars, defying physics, and bringing me to him. To now. I rise onto my tiptoes, kissing him back, deeper, needing him to never let go. He is what I want. My hands inch beneath the worn cotton of his shirt, feeling the sturdiness of each muscle up to his chest.
I feel like I’m awake for the first time. Truly awake. Ripped from the pages of a book. His fingers trace the hem of my sweater, beneath the shirt I wore when I first swam to the island, and his hands are trembling. Like he’s using my skin to keep himself steady.
We have both waited too long. Nights when we lay awake in our beds—wondering—while the wind ripped at the eaves of the house. While the cold settled around us. And we knew there was only one way to keep warm.
One way to calm the ache inside us.
I am becoming someone else.
A woman who risks everything—my old life, who I used to be—just to be here with him. To feel his heartbeat against my palm, his lips sliding down to my throat, burying kisses in my flesh. And then he’s hoisting me into his arms, my legs wrapping around him, and he’s carrying me up the stairs—like he did the other night when I drank too much ofNeil Hagdorn’s whiskey—but this time my mouth is on his. My arms around his neck. I’m breathing him in, all of him, and I feel like I’m falling from a great height. But I don’t care.
He kicks open the bedroom door with his boot, crossing to the bed—a bed where I have slept alone. His bed. But time seems to slow, and his breathing softens along with his eyes. He places me on the edge of the bed, and my heart rises suddenly, unexpectedly. It’s been a long time since I was with anyone other than James. But his eyes lower, looking at me like he did that day on the front porch—when my fingertips touched his jawline, when he gazed at me like I am the storm and the sea, like he has waited a lifetime for me—and my heart settles. I pull my soaked sweater over my head, dropping it to the floor. I remove every last piece of my clothing. And he watches me as if we have all the time in the world, each motion careful, deliberate, as he steps free from his boots, then eases his shirt over his head. The air is gone from my lungs; seeing him like this, only inches between us, makes me feel lightheaded. But the roar in my ears is louder, and I reach up, my fingers sliding along the ridged muscles of his neck, and I pull him down to kiss him harder. Fuck. I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve thought about this, about him—secretly, stupidly, naively. Never imagining my mouth would trace lines across the slope of his chest as he eases me back onto the quilt. Never imagining I’d feel his breath against my ear.
His hand slides along the inside of my thigh, tracing my flesh, moving higher, and I don’t want him to stop. His fingertips are reshaping the valleys and soft hills of my body, forming a new terrain, erasing who I used to be.
“Ellie…” he says, only a few inches from my lips. I can see the question in his beautiful eyes. He wants to know that I’m sure, that this is what I want.
I smile and plant a careful kiss against his mouth, tasting the sea on him, the chilled air. Answering his question with my hands in his hair, pulling him closer.
He keeps his eyes on me, steady, as if he wants to see every flutter of my eyelashes, every quiver, every sound that escapes my lips. And when he slides himself inside me, gentle at first, I know with certainty—like a hum beneath my skin, unmistakable, alchemical—that this, here with him, in this bed, inside an old wind-weathered farmhouse, on this island, is right where I want to be.
I wait for the guilt to find me. But it doesn’t come.
My head on his chest, I listen to the slow rhythm of his breath while he sleeps. I watch the shadows scattering back into dusty corners where they will wait out the daylight. Until it’s safe to come out again.
I match my inhale to his and slide my hand along the strong muscles of his shoulder—formed by the hard labor of daily work—thinking of how it felt to have his body over mine, to look into the blue of his eyes and see myself reflected back.
Again, I imagine the guilt bubbling up in my chest, but it doesn’t materialize. My hand arcs down to his stomach, and my eyes catch on the diamond ring gleaming in the soft morning light. It feels like a hoax, like it was put on the wrong woman, and it needs to be given back.
I slide the ring around my finger, unsure if I should remove it—place it on the bedside table. A letting go.
But before I can move, Clay wakes.
His hands find me before his eyes do, sliding across my ribs, around my back, pulling me to him—an unconscious motion, as if he’s woken beside me before.
He kisses my forehead, breathing in my hair.
“I didnae think I’d see ye again,” he whispers. His fingers tremble softly against my ribs, like I still might slip away. Like he’s dreaming. “I couldnae say it before. When ye asked what I want—” His hand stalls at the small of my back, his chin tilting down so his eyes meet with mine. “I was afraid to tell ye how I felt, thought I might lose ye if I did.That I didnae deserve—” He swallows, releases me a little. “But I know what I want now, I know that watching ye drift out to sea hurt worse than I could’ve thought.” His voice settles, finds a different rhythm, losing a touch of the Scots. “I want you here with me, on this island, in this house. I want you.” He breathes, his mouth over mine, suspended there, like he’s unsure if he’s said too much. Like maybe I’ll confess that I’m going to leave again.
