“I think I can handle a short walk down the beach.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” I smile and ruffle his hair as I pass him. “I’ll shout if I need help.”
He studies me for another second, like he’s deciding whether to push it. Then he exhales and leans back on his heels.
“Fine.” He points the stick at me. “But if you find anything useful, bring it back.”
I grin. “Deal.”
But if I find what I’m actually looking for, Dane probably won’t consider it useful at all.
The walk down the beach is quick. The yacht sits where it always has, tilted slightly where it beached during the attack. From a distance, it still looks almost the same—white hull, tall mast rising above the trees like a marker from another life.
Up close, it’s different.
Salt has dulled the paint, the rails are rough instead of polished, and the ropes hang stiff with age. The deck creaks under my weight as I climb the ladder and step aboard.
The island takes everything eventually.
Inside, the cabin smells stale, the kind of closed-up air that never quite goes away. Dust coats the surfaces we stopped using years ago, and the quiet feels wrong—too still compared to the island’s constant noise.
I pause for a second, just taking it in.
The yacht still holds pieces of the world we lost. Cabinets full of things we didn’t understand back then. Drawers we searched over and over in those first days when survival was the only thing that mattered.
Outside, everything feels alive.
In here, time stopped.
I move down the narrow passage toward my parents’ cabin. Back then, most of what was left didn’t matter—clothes meant for city streets, shoes that would be useless in the sand, and books we didn’t have an interest in.
Those books are exactly why I’m here now.
I open the cabinet beside the bunk and start shifting things around, my pulse picking up a little as I dig through the dusty stacks. For a second, I worry I imagined it. Then my fingers brush paper.
I pull them out one by one, my breath catching as the stack grows in my hands. There are more than I expected—at least a dozen. Romance novels, their bright covers faded with time.Women in flowing dresses, men standing close behind them, dramatic embraces frozen mid-moment.
I pause, staring down at them as a slow smile spreads across my face.
Mum loved these. Stories about people falling in love and all the complicated things that come with it.
A small flicker of excitement builds in my chest as I gather them in my arms. Because somewhere in these pages, there has to be an explanation for what’s been happening between Dane and me.
I carry the stack to the small table and set them down like they’re something fragile. Up close, they’re even more dramatic than I remember.
The covers alone are enough to make me stop and stare.
One cover shows a woman in a flowing red dress leaning back in a man’s arms while he looks at her like she’s the only person in the world. Another has a couple standing so close their foreheads touch, the title curling above them in gold.
I turn one over and flip it open somewhere in the middle.
The pages smell stale, like they’ve been shut away too long, but the words are still clear. I read a few lines, slowing over phrases that don’t quite make sense.
His gaze darkened with desire.
I frown, not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean.
