Page 170 of Neap & Spring

We’re sitting on the closed toilet lid and the edge of the bathtub, facing each other, knees almost touching in the cramped space. I’m wrapped in a blanket, wearing a Neap & Spring sweatshirt I stole from Callum’s office weeks ago and never gave back. It’s huge on me, the sleeves hanging past my hands, the hem hitting mid-thigh. He’s still shirtless, his jeans damp and clinging to his legs, his hair starting to dry in waves that curl slightly at the ends.

The storm is still raging outside. I can hear the wind screaming around the cottage. Rain hammering against the roof. The ocean roaring in the distance. But in here, with the door closed and no large windows to rattle, it feels almost peaceful. Like we’re in a bubble separate from the destruction happening just beyond these walls.

Safe.

Callum has my foot propped on his knee and a damp towel in his hands as he carefully cleans the cuts from the broken glass. His touch is gentle and methodical.

He picks out a small shard of glass with tweezers, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. “Does this hurt?”

“No. You’re being very gentle.”

“Good.” He sets the glass aside carefully in a pile on the counter, reaching for another piece. “I’m trying.” His shoulders are hitched near his ears, and I can see the tension lined in every angle of his body.

“Cal.” I reach out and touch his face, making him look at me. “I’m okay. You got to me in time. I’m okay.”

His eyes are full of relief when he looks at me. His face is etched in lingering adrenaline and something that looks like wonder. Like he still can’t quite believe I’m here, safe and in front of him.

“I know,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I know you are. I just —” He goes back to cleaning my foot with movements that are almost reverent. “I keep thinking about what could have happened if I’d waited longer. If I’d decided to give you more space.”

“But you didn’t. You came for me.”

“Of course I did,” he says, like there was never another option.

He applies antiseptic to the cuts, and I hiss slightly at the sting.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his thumb gentle on my ankle.

I give him a small smile and wave him on to continue.

He does, working in silence for another minute before reaching for the bandages. His hands are steady as he wraps my foot, securing the gauze with medical tape. Each movement is him trying to pour all the caring he feels into this simple act of tending to me.

“There,” he breathes out when he’s finished. “All done.”

He doesn’t let go of my foot. He holds it there on his knee, his thumb brushing absently along my ankle in that gentle circle he does when he needs to touch me to reassure himself I’m real.

The cottage groans around us. Something loud crashes outside. The wind sounds like it wants to take the whole coast with it.

But Callum’s hands are warm on my skin, and his eyes are sleepy and full of love when he looks at me, and I feel safer than I have in years.

He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. His thumb stills on my ankle.

“I have something to tell you,” he starts hesitantly.

My stomach tightens.

“Okay,” I draw out, anxiety spiking in my chest.

He’s quiet for another moment, and I watch him gather his thoughts, his fingers flexing slightly against my skin.

“The debt is gone,” he says finally. “The restaurant debt. The loans I took out.” He looks up at me now, and he looks so genuinely happy. “All of it. It’s gone.”

I stare at him, trying to process what he’s saying. “I don’t understand. How?”

“John Castellano.” He shifts slightly, adjusting my foot on his knee. “Sloane’s dad. He left provisions in his will to pay off the debts of all the local businesses on that stretch of the beach. Including mine.”

“All of it?” I whisper.

“All of it. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.” He laughs, but it sounds slightly disbelieving, like he still can’t quite wrap his head around it. “Margo came to the restaurant this afternoon to tell me right as the storm hit. She said the estate already processed the payments. And it’s done.”