Page 174 of Neap & Spring

“Now?” His hand comes up to stroke my hair. “Now we wait for the storm to pass completely. Then we assess the damage to the cottage. Then I will take you home.”

“Home?”

“My apartment. Unless you want to try to salvage this place tonight, which I strongly vote against given the giant hole in the window and possible roof damage.”

I pull back to look at him. “Your apartment?”

“You can’t stay here.” His voice is firm. “You’re coming home with me. We’ll deal with the cottage tomorrow when it’s light outside and safe.”

The way he says home — like it’s a given, of course I’ll come back with him — makes my heart squeeze.

“Okay,” I smile. “Home. Let’s go home.”

His answering smile is brilliant and unguarded. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Callum’s thumb is back to tracing circles on my hip in an unconscious rhythm. “You know what the best part of all this is?”

“What?”

“We have time now.” He looks at me, and his eyes are glazed over. “No more debt eating everything. No more running from city to city. Just … time. To figure things out. And build something together. Time to be together without all the weight we’ve both been carrying.”

“Time,” I repeat, testing the word. It feels foreign and precious at the same time.

“Yeah.” He kisses me softly. “All the time in the world.”

I settle back into his chest, his arms coming around me, and for the first time in five years, I let myself believe it.

We have time.

We have each other.

We have home.

Outside, I hear the rain finally stop. The wind drops to a whisper, just a gentle breeze now.

The storm is passing.

And we survived it.

Together.

Vivienne

5 YEARS LATER

“Behind!”

I pivot left, my body already moving before my brain registers the command, as Roman slides past me with a screaming-hot pan of seared halibut, his shoulder barely missing mine by centimeters. We’ve done this dance so many times we could do it blindfolded. The kitchen is in full swing. The air is thick with heat and the smell of caramelized scallops and fresh herbs. The pass is filling with tickets, the printer spitting them out in a steady stream that would have terrified me five years ago.

Now it just sounds like home.

“Scallops on four,” I call out, reaching for the brown butter emulsion I’ve been watching carefully, adjusting the heat, keeping it at that perfect temperature where the butter stays emulsified and glossy. My hand finds the pan handle, lifts it, and swirls the contents once to check consistency. It’s the color of honey, flecked with green herbs and dark beads of capers. Perfect. “Cora, how long on desserts for table seven?”

“Three minutes, Chef.” Her voice drifts over from the pastry station like she’s just commenting on the weather.

“Heard.”

I plate the scallops with movements so practiced my hands know what to do without conscious thought. Sauce in a swoosh across the plate. Three perfectly seared scallops are placed on top, golden crust, barely translucent centers. The preserved lemon and capers pooled around them. Microgreens for height, placed with tweezers. It’s not exactly the same dish from that big night. We’ve refined it, elevated it, and made it unmistakably ours. But the bones are still there.