The sea was whispering again.
It pressed its breath against the windows of the small cottage on Mariner's Lane—long, shivering gusts that carried sand and secrets and the smell of something older than memory. Outside, the sky had gone a shade of soft bruise: smoky mauves and fading indigo, the last light of dusk melting like honey over the horizon. Gulls cried in the distance, restless, as if warning the night not to come too quickly.
Inside, Isla Maren stood barefoot in the kitchen, arms wrapped around a chipped mug, steam curling from the tea she hadn't yet tasted. She wore a sweater too big for her frame, pale blue and unraveling at the left wrist. Her jeans were cuffed haphazardly, revealing slender ankles and the edge of a sun tattoo that peeked like a forgotten promise.
Her red hair was still damp from the rain earlier, twisted into a loose braid that hung down her back, strands escaping like they had somewhere better to be. Her cheeks were flushed, either from the brisk wind or the memory she'd been trying to ignore since she woke.
The cottage had once belonged to her grandmother, a woman who smelled of lavender and left recipes in the margins of romance novels. It was all peeling wallpaper and creaky floorboards, books stacked on every surface, and windows that refused to close all the way. Isla loved it fiercely, the way you love something broken in just the right way.
She took a sip of the tea—black, unsweetened, strong enough to feel like a decision—and looked out the window.
That's when she saw him.
A man.
He was across the street, standing in front of the boarded-up bakery that had been "under renovation" since 2009. He had one hand braced against the brick wall, the other dragging a thick brush across the surface in wide, sweeping arcs. Paint clung to his fingers, his knuckles, even the side of his jaw. He moved like the world was on mute around him—completely unaware he was being watched.
Isla narrowed her eyes.
He had on black jeans—ripped at the knee—and a dark green shirt rolled to the elbows. His boots were scuffed, soles worn to memory. His hair was ash blond, damp from the mist, swept back in chaotic waves like it hadn't seen a comb in years but somehow didn't need to. His jaw was dusted with stubble, and when he turned slightly, the curve of a tattoo peeked from his collar: something intricate, curling like smoke across his collarbone.
She didn't recognize him.
And in a town like Dawnmere, that meant one of two things:
He was either trouble.
Or he had been gone a very long time.
Jasper, the golden retriever with a limp and a fondness for toast crumbs, padded up to her side and let out a small huff. He sat, watching the man too, like he sensed something she didn't.
Isla tilted her head.
"I wonder what kind of man paints in the rain," she murmured.
The man paused then—like he'd heard her somehow. Like he could feel eyes on him. He didn't look up, not quite. But his hand slowed, the brush hovering just above the wall, and his mouth curved, slightly, dangerously, into a smile.
A smile she felt in her bones.
And then he went back to painting.