Elena's eyes drifted open to pale morning light filtering through the round porthole above the bed. The cabin rocked in a slow, steady rhythm beneath her, the timbers creaking softly as waves nudged the hull. Salt lingered in the cool air, carrying with it the distant cries of gulls somewhere beyond the glass.

She lay still for a moment, staring at the wooden ceiling as the haze of sleep slowly lifted. Then the memories returned one after another—the quiet conversation beneath the stars, the exhaustion that had settled over her, and finally the moment she’d climbed into the only bed she’d found. Liam had slept beside her.

A brief, disorienting thought flickered through her mind, too quick to fully form but enough to make her stomach tighten. Had anything happened while she was asleep? Had she somehow not noticed? Heat rushed into her cheeks as her gaze dropped instinctively to herself. Yesterday’s T-shirt was twisted around her waist beneath the blanket, her shorts still buttoned, her bra still in place. Everything was exactly as she remembered it. The tightness in her chest eased. Of course nothing had happened. The thought felt foolish now. He hadn’t disturbed her.

Even so, she couldn’t stop remembering the warmth that had settled behind her sometime during the night. She’d been half asleep, too tired to open her eyes, but she remembered the mattress dipping beneath his weight and the quiet care with which he’d settled at the edge of the bed, leaving as much space between them as he could. She could still remember the faint scent of soap and salt clinging to him, carried through the cabin on the gentle sea air.

Now the other side of the bed was empty. She reached out without thinking, her fingertips brushing the sheets. They were cool. He’d been gone for a while. Her mouth tasted like copper and stale sleep as she pushed herself up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood. The floor tilted beneath her feet in that familiar boat-motion way, the cabin still carrying the ghost of the sea. She steadied herself against the wall and climbed the short companionway.

The world opened around her in a wash of blue. Endless water stretched in every direction, broken only by the white wake trailing behind the Briar Rose. The breeze tugged loose strands of hair across her face as she stepped onto the deck. At the helm, Liam guided the yacht as though it were an extension of himself. He wore a dark gray Henley now, the sleeves pushed to his elbows, his forearms flexing beneath the fabric as he made a slight correction to the wheel. His movements were smooth and practiced enough that the boat barely seemed to respond.

“Morning,” he said without turning.

His voice was rough, unused. He’d just woken too.

“Morning.” Her own voice came out hoarse, scraped raw by sleep and the salt air.

“There’s coffee.” He nodded toward the stainless-steel thermos secured in a holder beside the helm. “Mug’s there.”

She picked up the mug resting beside it, poured herself a cup, and let the heat burn against her palm through the ceramic. The grounding sensation helped. She wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the steam hit her face before taking a sip. Black. Strong. Bitter.

“Where are we?”

Liam glanced toward the horizon. “Almost there.”

She frowned. “Almost where?”

A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “You’ll see.”

She took her coffee and moved past him toward the bow. She needed air, needed space from the smell of him and the memory of his body close to hers in the dark. The wind hit her first, carrying salt, green, and wet earth, along with the promise of land.

Her breath caught.

A crescent of land curled out of the morning haze, wrapping around a bay of impossibly blue water. Dense forest climbed from the shoreline, a wall of green that looked ancient and undisturbed. A single peak rose from the center—not tall enough to be a mountain, but too steep to be called a hill. It stood against the pale sky like a sentinel, watching over the curve of the island.

The whole thing looked peaceful. Untouched. Like something out of a story she'd read as a child.

It didn't look like a place people visited.

There were no signs of civilization anywhere she could see. No roads tracing the shoreline. No rooftops rising above the trees. Just an endless sweep of emerald forest broken only by pale sand and the solitary peak standing watch over the island.

“Where are we?” she asked again, quieter this time.

Liam stepped beside her, his gaze fixed on the bay ahead. “My family has had this island for generations.”

She looked over at him. “Owned?” she repeated.

He nodded. “It’s been in the Thorn family longer than Thorn Industries has existed.”

Her eyes drifted back to the shoreline. That explained the emptiness. No tourists. No fishing boats. No signs of anyone at all.

Liam eased the sails in, and the Briar Rose glided toward a weathered dock jutting out from the shore. The wood looked old, silvered by years of salt and sun, but solid and well maintained. A single post at the end stood ready for a line.

Liam moved past her, quick and sure-footed despite the gentle sway of the deck, a coiled rope hanging from his shoulder. He stepped onto the dock as the boat eased alongside it, landing with a soft thud that echoed against the hull. He looped the rope around the post, pulled, and the boat kissed the dock with a soft groan of wood against rubber. His arms tightened as he secured the line, then he looked up at her.

“Come on.”

He held out his hand. She hesitated. The gap between the boat and the dock was narrow enough that she could make it without help. She didn’t need his hand. But she took it anyway. His fingers closed around hers, warm and dry, roughened by years of work she still didn’t fully understand. The grip was firm and sure as she stepped from the boat onto the dock, rough wood pressing against her bare feet. She’d left her shoes on the boat.

He didn’t let go immediately. A beat too long. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, such a small movement she might have imagined it. Then he released her and turned toward the house.

A path of crushed shell cut through the sea grass and low shrubs, curving inland toward the house. It was built of wood weathered silver by salt and time, with a deep porch wrapping around the front and a few wooden chairs resting beneath it, their cushions faded by the elements. The roof was dark metal, angled to shed rain. The whole place looked as though it had grown out of the island rather than been built on it.

Liam pushed open the front door and held it for her. Inside, the house smelled of cedar and dust, with the faint ghost of woodsmoke lingering from some long-ago fire. The kitchen opened into the living room, the two spaces flowing together beneath exposed timber beams and tall windows that filled the cottage with morning light. A broad wooden counter with three stools separated the kitchen from the sitting area, while a small table tucked beside the windows overlooked the bay.

Two overstuffed armchairs flanked a stone fireplace, its hearth swept clean as though it had been used only yesterday. A well-worn bookshelf occupied one wall, its shelves crowded with novels and a few leather-bound classics. Beside it sat a low cabinet with neatly stacked board games, a deck of playing cards, and a carved wooden chess set waiting on top, the pieces already arranged as though someone had simply stepped away from a game. Nothing matched perfectly. Nothing looked new. And somehow, that made it better.

She found herself slowing as she took it all in. There was something about the place that pulled at her, something familiar in the worn wood and soft chairs, in the books waiting on the shelves and the quiet evidence of a life lived here. It didn’t feel like a vacation house designed to impress someone.

It was warm. Unexpectedly so. Not just the temperature, but something deeper she couldn't quite name. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she could imagine what it might feel like to simply stay somewhere without having to be on guard.

“Not much,” Liam said from behind her, “but it’s got what you need.”

She turned. He stood just inside the door, watching her take it in, his expression unreadable.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and meant it.

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Pleasure? It was gone before she could name it.

He gestured toward a narrow hall to the right of the doorway. “Bedrooms are down there. You’re in the first one on the right.”

She followed him down the hall, the wood floor creaking beneath their footsteps, a sound that made the house feel almost as though it were breathing. Liam pushed open the first door. Inside was a queen bed made up with white linens that looked crisp and clean against the dark wood frame. A window faced the forest, green leaves pressing close to the glass, while a small dresser stood against one wall with a reading lamp on top. The room was simple and clean, but there was nothing cold or impersonal about it.

She stepped inside, her gaze lingering on the bed. It looked impossibly soft, the kind of bed that invited you to sink into it and forget what time it was.

He pointed to a door across the hall. “Bathroom’s there. Shared. Shower’s got hot water, but give it a minute to warm up.”

She nodded, taking it all in. At the end of the hall, another door stood ajar, and through the opening she caught a glimpse of a larger room—a king bed framed in dark wood, a deep blue coverlet, and a window facing the water. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled, the pillow still bearing the indent of a head.

His room.

She looked away before she could let herself wonder what it would feel like to wake up with that view.

He didn’t gesture toward it. He simply stepped past her before she could look any longer and headed back toward the kitchen.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve got to unload the boat. Supplies won’t carry themselves.”

She followed him to the front door, stopping on the threshold as he stepped off the porch, his bare feet landing on the shell path.

“Do you need help?”

He paused and turned, looking at her as though the question had caught him off guard.

“No.” A beat passed. “But thanks.”

She watched him walk toward the dock with a loose, confident stride, the Henley pulling across his shoulders as he bent to lift a crate. Boxes. Canned goods. A bag of rice. He had planned this. Every detail.

She stayed on the porch, her coffee cooling between her hands as he hoisted the crate onto his shoulder. The muscles in his back shifted beneath the fabric, the strength in him having little to do with a gym. It was working strength, built from years of lifting, carrying, and doing what needed to be done. The Henley pulled taut across his chest as he adjusted the weight and started back toward the house.

He passed close enough that she caught the scent of him—sweat, salt, and the clean musk of exertion. He didn't look at her. He simply carried the crate inside, set it on the kitchen counter, and turned back toward the dock for another.

She should get dressed. Put on real shoes. Do something useful.

But she didn't move.

The island hummed around her. Water lapped softly against the dock, wind moved through the leaves of the forest, and somewhere inland, a bird called out with a sound she didn't recognize.

She was alone here.

With him.

The thought should have terrified her. Maybe it did, somewhere deep inside where she wasn't quite willing to look. But standing there on the porch of his island house, watching him carry supplies from the boat, what she felt was something quieter.

Something that felt dangerously close to peace.

He came back down the path, a second crate balanced on his shoulder. This time, he stopped in front of her.

“You’re quiet.”

Elena glanced up at him, then toward the island stretching beyond the porch. “Just taking it in.”

His eyes followed hers. “It’s not much.”

“It is.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “You seem different here.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Different?”

She nodded. “You’re not as...” She paused, looking for the word. “Tightly wound.”

A faint breath escaped him, almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it. His gaze drifted past her toward the line of trees beyond the cottage, lingering there as though the island held memories she couldn't see.

“Maybe this place is the only one where I don't have to be anything.”

The words seemed to surprise even him. For a moment, something shifted in his expression, the confidence she had come to expect giving way to something quieter, almost distant.

Then his jaw tightened.

He adjusted the crate higher against his shoulder and walked past her into the cottage without another word.

Elena remained on the porch, her coffee forgotten in her hands. The island stretched before her, green and untamed beneath the rising sun. Wind whispered through the trees, carrying scents she couldn't name, while gentle waves lapped against the dock below.

She had expected another extension of Liam Thorn's world—a place as polished and imposing as Thorn Manor. Instead, she had found something quieter. Something that felt lived in. Cared for.

Her eyes drifted toward the open doorway as she heard the muffled thud of the crate being set on the kitchen floor.

He was different here.

He wasn't the man who sat behind a desk and made decisions that changed lives. He wasn't the man who carried the weight of an entire business empire on his shoulders.

Here, he was simply Liam.

The thought stayed with her as she stepped inside, the cool shade of the cottage wrapping around her while the island waited silently beyond its walls.

Her bare feet found the cool wood of the floor, a small comfort against the warmth of the island air pressing through the open door. She set her cold coffee on the counter, already thinking she’d find the kettle later, make something hot, and settle into this space that felt like it belonged to another life entirely.

The kitchen was small but deliberate, every item in its place. A block of knives sat near the stove, while a row of spices filled glass jars along the counter, their labels handwritten in a script she didn't recognize. A copper pot hung from a hook above the island, catching the light from the window. Someone had cared about this space. Liam, or whoever had built the house for him.

She ran her fingers along the edge of the counter. The wood was smooth, worn soft by years of use, with a crack running through one corner that had been repaired with dark epoxy, the surface catching the light like river stones.

“I see you’re making yourself at home already.”

His voice came from the doorway, rough with exertion. She turned to find him standing there with a third crate balanced on his shoulder, sweat darkening the collar of his Henley. His eyes found hers and held for a moment.

She glanced down at her hand still resting on the counter. “I guess I am.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

He carried the crate to the counter and set it down with a grunt before beginning to unload it. Canned tomatoes. A bag of coffee beans. A block of cheese wrapped in wax paper.

She watched his hands as they moved, sure and economical, never wasting a motion. He handled each item with the ease of someone who knew this kitchen by heart.

"How often do you come here?"

His hand paused around the can of beans. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he answered quietly.

“Whenever I need to think.”

Elena waited, but he offered nothing more. “Sounds like it should be often.”

A faint smile touched his mouth, but it faded almost as quickly as it came.

“Not as often as I’d like.”

He set the can down and turned to face her fully. Something had shifted in his expression. Whatever had been behind that smile was gone now, tucked away before she could get a good look at it.

The distance between them was only a few feet, but it suddenly felt like miles, as though the air itself had gone still.

She waited for him to say something—anything—but the silence stretched, the air between them growing thick with the weight of his unfinished sentence. He didn't fill it. Just stood there, a can of beans still in his hand, watching her with that unreadable expression.

Elena let her gaze slide past him, toward the low cabinet beside the bookshelf. The board games sat in a neat stack, their corners faded, the wooden chess set waiting mid-play like a moment frozen in amber. She walked over without asking permission, her bare feet silent on the cool floor. Her fingers brushed the edge of a box—Scrabble, the letters worn from use, the box creased along the spine as if someone had opened it a hundred times.

"Did you have great memories here?" she asked, not turning around. "With this house. This island." Her voice was quiet, but it carried. "It feels like a place people loved."

Behind her, the can clinked softly as he set it on the counter. Then the rustle of movement—the refrigerator door opening, the thud of something being set down. She glanced over her shoulder. He was pulling things out of the fridge with the same economical efficiency. A block of cheese. A jar of olives. A small wooden board appearing from somewhere beneath the counter.

"It was," he said finally, his voice rougher now, but not harsh. "This was where we came when my parents wanted to escape. Before everything got complicated."

He sliced a wedge of cheese with a knife that seemed to appear in his hand, the blade sliding through it effortlessly.

"They'd bring the boat, and we'd spend summers here. We'd stay out on the water all day, come back when the sun was going down. No phones. No business. Just the four of us."

She turned fully, watching him arrange olives and dried apricots on the board with the same precision he used on everything else. A cluster of almonds. A few slices of prosciutto, laid out like petals.

"Four?" she prompted, curious about who else would have been with them. “Would Presley come along?”

His hands paused over the board as he let out a light laugh. "No. Only family has ever come here. My aunt Iredessa used to come too. She'd bring the board games. Books. Stories she'd make up as she went along." He looked up, and for just a moment, the mask slipped—a flicker of something young and unguarded. "She even taught me how to cheat at Scrabble."

Something about the way he said it. There was no calculation behind the words. No careful control. Just a quiet fondness for a memory that clearly still mattered to him. Elena could feel the emotion behind Liam’s words for the first time since they had met.

She could picture him younger—sitting at this same table, arguing over letters, probably insisting his aunt was cheating while she laughed and denied it. It was strange seeing him like that. Not as Liam Thorn, the man everyone feared, but as a laughing little boy.

Elena found herself smiling before she realized she was doing it.

"Where is she now?" Elena asked.

He picked up the board and carried it to the small table by the window. "She died when I was ten." His jaw tightened, but he kept moving, pulling out a stool and sliding onto it. "After that, my parents stopped coming here as often, but my mother wouldn’t let it go."

She crossed the room slowly, her hand still resting on the Scrabble box. The wood was warm from her touch. Ghosts. She knew something about ghosts.

"Is your mother why you keep coming back?"

He looked up at her, and for a moment his expression gave nothing away. Then his gaze drifted toward the windows, toward the stretch of green beyond the glass.

"Partly."

Elena waited. He looked toward the window instead of at her.

"My grandfather found this place first, but the home wasn’t built until after he passed and my parents took up the project of building this home. My father said he needed somewhere away from meetings, expectations, and everything that came with the Thorn name." His fingers traced the edge of the board absently. "But my mother was the one who made it what it became."

He glanced around the cottage.

"The house was nothing when we first came here after my father finished building it. A place to sleep. Four walls and a roof. She filled it with books, games, plants that probably had no business trying to keep alive on an island, and every little thing that made it feel like we belonged here."

A faint smile touched his mouth, there and gone.

"She said a place wasn't a home because of what it had. It was a home because of what happened inside it."

Elena looked around again—the worn wood, the bookshelf, the chess set waiting on the table. Suddenly, all the small details felt different.

"And you kept it."

"I tried."

The simplicity of the answer carried more weight than anything else he could have said.

"After my parents were gone, this was the last piece of them I had left."

“What happened to your parents?”

"I don’t want to talk about that." His shoulders stiffened as his gaze dropped back to the board between them. His gaze darkened, and the Liam Thorn of the Manor almost started to return. He gestured toward the food. "Now sit. Eat. I didn't make it for decoration."

Elena couldnt let things turn that direction. "You were saying something about good memories," she said, reaching for a piece of cheese. She then reached for the Scrabble box and set it on the edge of the table, pushing it toward him with her fingertips.

"Let's make new ones."