By the time we started heading back, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, turning everything gold. The ride was slower this time. Not because we were tired—but because there was no reason to hurry.
We reached the cottages just as the light began to fade. I leaned my bike gently against the porch railing and turned toward him.
"You're not bad at this," I said. "I expected at least one crash."
"You really thought I'd fall off a bike?"
"I didn't say that," I said, smirking. "I just didn't not say it."
He shook his head, but I could see the amusement tugging at his mouth.
"Come in," I said, unlocking the door. "I have celebratory granola bars."
He raised an eyebrow. "I feel honored."
Inside, I opened the cabinet and tossed one at him. "Catch."
He caught it easily and leaned against the wall as he opened the wrapper. I grabbed one for myself and motioned toward the front door again.
"Porch?"
He nodded.
We sat on the steps, granola bars in hand, the breeze cool against my skin. The sky was streaked with soft purples and greys. It was quiet. Peaceful in a way that always made me want to stay quiet too.
"This town's kind of nice," I said, unwrapping the bar. "Small, but not suffocating."
"Yeah," he said. "It grows on you."
"You've been here a while?"
"Long enough."
I glanced at him. "You ever lived anywhere else?"
He nodded slowly. "I moved around a lot. City. Coast. Back and forth."
"That's not suspicious at all."
He smiled slightly. "I was a very well-traveled teenager."
I raised a brow. "What about now?"
"Still moving," he said, eyes on the horizon.
There it was again—that pause, the kind that seemed full of something he wouldn't say.
I leaned back on my elbows and looked up at the sky.
"Feels weird," I said after a moment. "How easy this is."
"What does?"
"Being around you."
He didn't say anything, but I saw the way his shoulders shifted slightly. Like the weight of that meant something to him.
"You're quiet," I said. "But you don't make the silence feel heavy."
"And what do I make it feel like?"
I thought about that. "Safe, maybe."
His gaze moved toward me, and for a moment, I couldn't read it. Not exactly.
"You don't know me," he said softly.
"Maybe not all of you," I said. "But I know how I feel when you're here."
Another silence.
Then, without looking at me, he said, "That's a dangerous thing to say."
I frowned, sitting up straighter. "Why?"
He stood up instead of answering.
"I should go."
"Of course you should," I muttered, watching him walk down the steps.
He paused at the bottom.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I said.
He didn't turn around. "You always do."
And just like that, he disappeared into the fading light.
I sat there for a while longer, chewing what was left of my granola bar. The night felt thicker than usual. Still soft, still quiet—but with something beneath it I couldn't name.
The next few days passed in a way that didn't feel like real time.
We didn't make plans, Alan and I. He'd just… show up. Or I'd happen to run into him. Sometimes I'd find him sitting on the driftwood like always. Sometimes he'd knock lightly on the porch railing, like announcing his presence without words. Sometimes he didn't say anything at all—he'd just walk with me, no explanation, no destination.
We went cycling again once. I challenged him to a race, lost, and then accused him of being secretly bionic.
Another day, we walked to the far end of the beach, where the sand gave way to smooth flat rocks. We spent the afternoon trying to skip stones across the water. He was good at it. I wasn't.
We played cards on the porch during a slow sunset. He claimed not to remember the rules, then won three times in a row.
Each moment was simple. Easy. But still left me feeling like something permanent was being built. Slowly. Quietly.
Today, we were supposed to go fishing.
He'd mentioned a small dock about twenty minutes up the coast where it was peaceful and mostly untouched by tourists. I wasn't sure when I agreed to go fishing exactly, but somehow, we'd gathered two old poles and a basket of snacks and ended up here — near the edge of a quiet inlet, the sun already warming the wooden planks beneath us.
"I've never done this before," I said, examining the fishing rod like it was a complicated machine.
"You'll be fine," he said. "It's mostly just sitting and pretending you know what you're doing."
"Oh, good. That's my specialty."
He smirked and handed me a pole. "Bait's already on. Just cast and wait."
I followed his instructions. Badly.
The first time I cast, the hook flew sideways and nearly hit a piece of driftwood on the shore. He said nothing. Just gave me a look.
"I'm a work in progress," I muttered.
"You're a danger to marine life," he replied.
I rolled my eyes and sat down beside him. The sun was high, the breeze gentle, and everything felt… still.
But then Alan stood up suddenly.
"I have to go," he said, already moving.
"What?"
"Just for a bit. Something I forgot to take care of."
"You're leaving now?"
"I'll be back before you catch anything. Which, judging by your technique, gives me plenty of time."
I opened my mouth to say something smart, but he was already walking away, back down the path, hands tucked into his pockets like this wasn't the weirdest timing in the world.
I sighed and stayed where I was, watching my fishing line do absolutely nothing.
A few minutes passed. Then I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned and saw a man—maybe late fifties, gray-streaked hair, sun-worn face—walking toward the dock. He gave me a friendly nod as he approached.