Page 179 of Neap & Spring

I take his hand and let him pull me up. I look down at the ring on my finger, then back at him. “This was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

“Yeah?” He looks genuinely relieved, like there was a chance I might say otherwise.

“Yeah.” I stand on my toes and kiss him once more. “Best proposal in the history of proposals.”

“Good. Because I’ve been planning it for three years, and if you’d said no I would have had to leave the country out of embarrassment.”

“Three years!?”

“I bought the ring on our two-year anniversary of you telling me you were staying. I’ve been carrying it around ever since just waiting for the right moment.” He laces his fingers through mine, and we start walking back toward the restaurant, our footsteps leaving tracks in the sand. “But I also wanted to wait until you were ready. Until you’d healed enough to know you were staying because you wanted to. Not because you were running from something else.”

My throat goes tight. “Callum.”

“I wanted you to be proud of yourself first,” he says quietly. “I wanted you to work a full service without fear. And pick up a knife and feel joy instead of panic. I wanted you to look in the mirror and see what I see — someone who is strong and brave and whole.” His hand tightens on mine. “I wanted you to marry me because you chose me, not because you needed me.”

I stop walking, pulling him to a halt. “I do choose you. Every single day. I have been for years.”

“I know.” He cups my face with his free hand. “That’s why tonight felt right. You’re not the woman who walked into my restaurant five years ago. You’re not even the woman who told me you were staying. You’re —” He smiles. “You’re you. Completely and fully you. And I wanted to ask this version of you.”

I kiss him hard, tasting salt — ocean or tears, I’m not sure.

When we pull apart, he’s grinning. “I almost proposed during prep last Tuesday, but Roman stopped me.”

“During prep?”

“You were wearing my hoodie and you had flour on your nose, and you were arguing with Cora about the chemistry of meringue, and I just —” He shakes his head. “I wanted to ask you right then. But Roman physically took the ring out of my pocket and told me I needed to do better than the middle of a Tuesday afternoon prep session.”

“I would have said yes,” I say. “Right there in the middle of prep with flour on my nose and Cora rolling her eyes at us. I would have said yes anywhere.”

“I know.” He smirks. “But you do deserve better than a Tuesday afternoon proposal. You deserve the world.”

We climb the wooden steps back up to the restaurant, our hands still linked. As we get closer I can hear voices, laughter, and the sound of a cork popping.

We round the corner to the back patio, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. Everyone is here, gathered in a warm circle of laughter and light. Patrick is standing near the edge of the patio, a beer in his hand, his eyes bright as he watches all of us gather. When he catches my eye, he raises his bottle in a small salute, his smile wide and genuine. Hayes is on his phone checking work emails probably, while Beckett and Iris bicker next to him about something that has Beckett gesturing wildly and Iris laughing and shaking her head. Roman sits with his arm around Frannie’s waist, both of them grinning at some private joke, their wedding bands catching the light as they lean close together. Cora with a three-tier cake decorated with what looks like rosemary and edible flowers, rolling her eyes at something but smiling anyway.

And then there are my parents, standing a bit apart but clearly a part of the warmth. My mom’s hand is on my dad’s arm, her eyes sparkling with emotion as she looks around at our friends. They’ve finally come to grips with everything I’ve been through, and seeing them here, supporting me, gives me an unexpected sense of calm. They’re asking the hard questions, unearthing feelings I’d buried for so long, and right now, they’re just … here.

“Viv!” my dad calls out, waving me over with that familiar grin that makes my heart swell. “Look at this cake! It’s a work of art. It’s almost too pretty to eat.” He glances at Cora, who pretends to be insulted but can’t hide her smile.

“Almost,” I echo with a grin, feeling the warmth of my parents’ presence wrap around me like a hug. They’ve worked hard to be here for me through every neap and spring tide, and knowing I have their support makes this moment feel even more special.

And at the bar, Wesley and Sloane are clearly in the middle of a heated argument.

“— telling you the nets need to be replaced, not repaired —” Sloane leans across the bar, her eyes flashing.

“And I’m telling you, Sloane, that we don’t have the budget for new nets right now.” Wesley mirrors her position, leaning in until they’re inches apart.

“Then maybe you should stop wasting money on equipment that doesn’t actually improve efficiency.”

“That equipment saved us three hours last week.”

“Three hours you spent organizing the storage bay that didn’t need organizing!”

They’re both breathing hard, all harsh words and barely contained fury, the air between them crackling with an energy that has nothing to do with fishing nets and everything to do with something neither of them is willing to acknowledge.

Callum catches me watching and grins, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Those two are going to kill each other.”

“Or something like that,” I murmur back, watching the way Wesley’s eyes track Sloane’s movements and the way she leans closer when she’s making a point.