But it was better with someone watching out.
They spent another fifteen minutes on the seawall, the rain soaking through both their jackets, the wind making conversation impossible half the time. Clint pointed out things she would have missed from her angle. A pelican fighting the wind above the lighthouse, wings locked. A fishing boat cutting through the chop toward the marina, its running lights blurred by rain. She shot it all.
When the rain intensified, she finally said, “That’s it.”
Clint collapsed the tripod legs and tucked it under his arm. “Inside?”
“Inside.”
They ran for Captain’s Watch. Melissa fumbled the knob in her wet hands, and Clint reached around her and opened the door without comment. They stumbled into the kitchen dripping water, both breathing hard from the sprint.
The cottage was warm and the overhead light buzzed. Rain hammered the windows, and the wind made the walls creak, but inside it was still and dry.
Melissa peeled off her windbreaker and hung it over a kitchen chair. Underneath, her shirt was soaked through. Her shoes squelched. She looked at Clint, who was leaving a puddle on her kitchen floor and didn’t seem to care. His jacket was darker in patches, and his boots were caked with sand.
She laughed. The sound surprised her, but it was real, pulled out of her by the absurdity of it, two grown adults dripping seawater in a kitchen. “We look terrible.”
“You look like you got exactly what you wanted.” He set the tripod against the wall by the door.
“I did.” She pulled the camera from inside her jacket where she’d tucked it during the run. Still dry. She checked the screen and scrolled through the last dozen frames. The lighthouse against the storm. The beam cutting through rain. The pelican. The fishing boat’s blurred lights. “These are good, Clint. Really good.”
He came to stand beside her. Close enough that she could feel the damp heat coming off him. He looked at the screen as she scrolled.
“You were right,” he said. “You really do know what you’re doing.”
“And you were right that it’s better with someone watching out.”
He was quiet for a moment. She kept scrolling, but she wasn’t really seeing the images anymore. She was aware of him beside her and the water dripping from his hair. Aware of the fact that this was the closest they’d been since the stairwell, and this time neither of them had slipped or been caught off guard. They were just standing in her kitchen, wet, tired, and completely awake.
“How was the bachelor party?” she asked.
“Good. Sean’s happy.” He paused. “The last night I was there, he told me that the rescue wasn’t what changed his life. Meeting his fiancée in physical therapy was. He said if I hadn’t made the call I made, he’d never have met her.”
“Do you believe that?”
He took a long time answering. Rain ticked against the windows. “I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But something loosened when he said it. First time in three years I didn’t feel like I was choking on it.”
She set the camera down on the counter. The scrolling was a pretense, and they both knew it. She leaned against the counter, arms folded, and let herself look at him properly for the first time since he’d been back. Three days had been enough to forget the specific details. The scar on his left hand, the careful way he stood in her kitchen, like he was aware of every inch of space between them and measuring whether to close it.
“I finalized the agreement with Sam,” she said. “While you were gone.”
“Good.”
“I’ll need to travel for research. Short trips. A week here, a week there.”
“Okay.”
“But I come back. Starlight Shores is home base.” She turned to face him fully, her hip against the counter. “This is where I come back to.”
She could have said more. Could have told him that his absence for three days had taught her something she’d been avoiding, that the gap in her exhibition where his portrait should have been ached in a way she couldn’t ignore. But Clint didn’t need a speech. He needed her to stay.
Clint reached out and touched her face. His hand was cold from the rain, and she felt the roughness of his calluses against her cheek. He pushed a strand of wet hair off her forehead with his thumb.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he said.
Her throat tightened. “I don’t want to leave.”
He kissed her.
