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The gravel crunches under the tires of my Jeep as I drive down Shiloh’s lane. A pair of crows are hopping around the yard, fighting over a bit of shiny something glinting on the ground. I walk over to investigate, bending over to pick up a bottle cap.

“Sorry, guys, no littering allowed,” I tell the crows, who squawk and flutter around, angry at me for stealing their treasure. I don’t even know how this got here, since Shiloh sure as hell didn’t toss it. He’d sooner cut off his own hand than leave trash on the ground.

Fiddling with the bottlecap, I skirt around the edge of the house and walk down toward the beach. Sand blows across the path, the grass waving merrily in the breeze. It’s a rougher sea today, the rolling waves dark and foamy as they coast their way to shore. Stopping on my favorite rock, I look over to the right toward the lighthouse in the distance. It’s an epic view, and at this time of day, especially. It’s too early yet for the sun to fully set, but the sky is in that warm liminal stage between day and night—everything is soft around the edges, kissed with gold, the blue fading away gently. I want to paint it. I want to paint it exactly how it looks standing right here on this rock in Shiloh’s yard, a view only he and I would recognize.

Turning the bottlecap over and over in my hand, I trace the pad of my thumb over the jagged, curved edge. After a moment, I take my phone out and snap a series of photos of the lighthouse. I’ve got a good memory for a scene, but even so,it can’t hurt to have a little reminder at hand when I slip back down into self-doubt.

The breeze has enough of a chill to it that I’m starting to get cold. Sighing, I turn and start the walk back to Shiloh’s house. If my body wanted to toughen up a bit sooner rather than later, that would be great. Shiloh wasn’t even wearing a sweater, and here I am, fully covered and about to start shivering like a lost kitten. Although I suppose there’s something to be said for being cold all the time, as long as Shiloh is around to take notice and offer to warm me up.

By the time his truck rumbles down the gravel-and-sand drive, I’m back up in the room we converted into a studio and tentatively shaping a piece in my head. My pulse jumps as I watch him through the window, happy for any and all distractions that come my way. I’m too nervous to really put any solid effort into painting, anyway, so it’s not as though he’s interrupting. This is me easing myself back in—staring at the blank canvas and thinking threatening thoughts.

I meet Shiloh at the door like a big, overeager puppy, leaning forward to kiss him the moment his face is near enough to mine. He startles, returning the peck but also leaning away.

“I stink,” he warns me.I know!I think. If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it.

“How about a shower?” I offer. The bait smell doesn’t bother me, but if he wants to wash it away, I’m happy to get wet. He laughs, nudging me away and smacking my butt.

“I brought dinner. Go deal with that while I shower.” He hands me a pair of plastic bags and gestures toward the kitchen.Not precisely the sort of thing I’d been hoping to put into my mouth, but I can pivot.

“Okay. Hurry up,” I tell him, and then catch his chin to bring his mouth back to mine, stink or no. He huffs a muffled laugh but puts a hand on my hip and squeezes. Every inch of me hums with pleasure. Fuck you, Dryden Roy. You know nothing about me or this.

Chapter Twenty

SHILOH

Ewan always buzzes with a low vibration like he’s a strip of neon humming with energy. Sometimes I think it’s stress or nerves, while other times it’s enthusiasm. Ewan was always the one happy to do and go and experience, and was always the first to be bored once his mood turned. Not even seven years of time could change how well I can read him, which is how I know that his energy from this past week has been off. Less excitement and more anxiety. He flits around my house like a pretty little hummingbird, moving my art around, reorganizing the cupboards in an alphabetical fashion, and adding two new Sharpie animal drawings to my collection.

This last came as something of a surprise. I was scared that his self-consciousness would get the better of him and he’d stopgiving or even just showing me things. Granted, he hasn’t shown me any paintings, nor have I gone into the spare bedroom that we’ve converted into a space for him. Ewan will invite me in when he’s ready, and if all I ever get is a trio of Sharpie ocean critters, I’ll die a happy man.

The thing is, I think heispainting in there. Several days this past week, I’ve come home and not had him greet me at the door. I went about my routine, and when I got out of the shower, he was seated on my bed waiting for me, a sheepish expression on his face as he apologized forletting the time get away from him. As if he was required to be next to me the moment I walked inside. When I’d told him he could paint all night if he wanted, he’d flushed and looked away from me, and I’d let the subject drop. If he didn’t want to talk about it, we wouldn’t.

Something is definitely picking at him, though, and if it isn’t work, then it must be us. Which scares me. He’s been here nearly two months, and even though he never once confirmed it, I’ve always had his stay in Siren’s Point lasting three. Maybe it’ll be more, but there’s an equal possibility that it’ll be less, and the thought of that terrifies me. I’m not so stupid as to think my spare bedroom and a sleepy hometown will be enough for him. Of course, in the privacy of my own mind, I can admit that I hopeI’menough for him. Even if he doesn’t stay, maybe I’ll be able to wrangle an agreement to come back. He’ll have a bed and a chair on the patio waiting for him, food and warmth and love. The best I can dream for is a long-distance relationship, whether it’s a romantic one or not.

All I can hope is that we don’t have a repeat of what happenedseven years ago—that I won’t wake up one day to find him gone, washed away with the tide. I don’t want to be an anchor holding him down, but I do want to be the port he returns to. The slick, oily dread in my stomach warns me I need to be careful, warns me that sometimes love isn’t enough to make things work. I don’t want to love him at a distance again. I could, if I had to, but I don’t want that.

What I want is this—Ewan already in bed when I get out of the shower, chest bare and shoulders propped up on the pillows as he frowns at something on his phone. The thin white sheet draped over his lap makes the shape of his legs little more than a tease below. He looks over at me and smiles, cheeks dark with scruff and pale skin glowing in the light from the lamp. IfIwere the painter, he’d be the only thing I’d paint, just as he is now, mostly covered yet somehow more tantalizing because of it.

“Earth to Shiloh,” he jokes, head tipped back against the wall, hazel eyes watching me. We never had a conversation about living together, yet somehow, every night has ended with him in my bed. He hasn’t stayed at the rental cottage since the day we set up the office as a studio, and every day, there seems to be more of his things scattered about with mine. I find his socks easier than I can find my own, and something about that makes me unbearably happy. I’d give anything in the world for this to never be taken away.

“Just enjoying the view,” I tell him softly, sliding into bed beside him. “Playing Scrabble?”

“Daniel is going to win, the bastard. I think he cheats.”

“Or maybe you’re just a sore loser,” I correct, chucklingwhen he gasps. Lying back, I pillow my head on my arm and stretch my legs out. My back twinges where I twisted it wrong today, and not even the ten minutes I spent under the scalding hot water in the shower was able to burn it away. Ewan rolls over and flops an arm across my middle. I grunt.

“Look,” he says, sliding closer and holding his phone above my face so I can see the screen. “Quixotry.”

“Oh, so you’re the one cheating,” I comment, making him snort. I feel the movement in his belly, pressed as he is along my side. I wish I hadn’t let myself get bogged down with worry in the shower. Now there’s a hint of sadness alongside the happiness, a little sliver of doubt about how long I’ll be able to enjoy this before it’s gone.

“It’s a real word. It means, like…impractically idealistic,” he explains. After a second of grinning happily at his game, he locks the screen and tosses the phone onto the mattress. It slides to the floor with a thump, and he mutters a soft “Oops” before dropping his head down onto my shoulder.

I slip my arm around him, trailing my fingers up and down his back, feeling the way his skin pebbles in response. Cold-blooded, my Ewan. I pull him a little closer.

“I’m going to blow you in, like, five minutes,” he tells me, making me laugh. He sounds tired, and if there is one thing I know about him, it’s that sleep doesn’t come easily. If he thinks he can fall asleep, he needs to do that, not suck my dick.

“Did you sleep last night?” I ask, knowing perfectly well he didn’t. He was tossing and turning and waking me up every hour as he did. I’m an incredibly heavy sleeper, but even I couldn’tstay that way amid his gymnastics routine. I didn’t say anything, not wanting him to feel bad about waking me or, even worse, decide it’s better if he sleeps at the cottage and not here with me.

“Yeah, a little,” he lies. I flatten my palm and stroke up and down his back slowly. He sighs. “Okay, no. I didn’t sleep. Sorry if I woke you.”