Page 52 of The Clifftop Cottage

He turned away, jaw tight. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like this. But it was all tangled together now – the stones, the internet, the way she’d been so quick to dismiss what he’d told her.

When he looked back at her, his voice had dropped. “Those carvings aren’t nothing. Everything that ever went wrong here started with them.”

Erica folded her arms. “Gabriel, that’s just superstition. They’re marks in a stone. History.”

“How do you know?” His voice rose despite himself. “My dad tried, alright? Over and over. Things broke. Money disappeared. Nothing stuck.” He swallowed. “And then there was the crash.”

She looked at him, suddenly still. “What crash?”

“Never mind.” He turned away. Too much already.

But she was watching him now, really watching, as if the shape of the story was beginning to form.

He grabbed his jacket. “You think everything can be fixed if you just push hard enough,” he said. “Good luck with that.”

The wind caught the door as he yanked it open.

It slammed behind him, the sound cracking through the cottage as he stepped straight into the strong breeze.

19

Leah stared at the phone, her stomach twisting into knots.

We need to talk about us. Can you tell me a time you’re not working and when Maisie’s at school?

Dylan. Persistent.

He’d brought it up last month. The distance between them. She’d brushed it off, told him he was imagining things, that they were fine. But were they?

She locked her phone and set it aside, rubbing her temples. The truth sat there, unspoken, like a quiet presence lurking in the house, in their bed, in the spaces between conversations. As much as she loved their life, as much as she adored Maisie, she couldn’t deny the shift anymore.

She barely saw Dylan. He was gone for weeks at a time, then home again, slipping into place like an old book back on a shelf. He took over the school runs, cooked dinner, fixed whatever had broken in his absence. It should have been a relief, but instead, it irked her. Like he was an interruption. Like everything she’d built in his absence had to pause, adjust, accommodate. And just when they’d settled again, he’d leave.

Then the cycle would start over.

She hadn’t responded. She couldn’t plan or arrange times anymore – it didn’t all sit on her shoulders.

When she arrived home after her shift, he was already there, sitting on the couch, waiting.

A teapot, milk, and two mugs were perched neatly on a tray on the coffee table. He’d even laid out biscuits – two chocolate ones. One already had a bite taken out of it.

“Quality control,” he said, when he saw her looking.

He’d thought of everything. Even the excuse she might make about needing food, needing space, needing anything but this conversation.

He clasped his hands together awkwardly, shifting to make space for her on the couch. His hair was cropped even shorter than last time, the red steadily fading to white. The curse of a redhead, he used to joke. His father’s fiery hair had turned a stark white before thirty. Dylan wasn’t far behind.

“How was work?” he asked, pouring the tea.

“Tiring,” she sighed, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her.

“But worth it?” His brow furrowed slightly, a familiar look. The silent this is the job you chose, and you’re always complaining about it.

She ignored it. “A complicated birth,” she said instead. “I don’t know the outcome yet. My shift ended, and the next midwife took over.”

She hated that part. Spending hours with a mother, guiding her through labour, building trust, only to leave her in someone else’s hands at the most vulnerable moment. But that was the job. If she stayed late every time, she’d never get home.

Dylan sat up a little straighter, leaning forward over the table.