Clara’s boots scraped against the gravel as she climbed the path to the lighthouse, the wind tugging at her coat like a restless child. The sea roared below, its waves slamming the cliffs with a rhythm that felt almost deliberate, as though the ocean itself were trying to break through. She’d always found comfort in the storm’s fury—the way it stripped everything down to its rawest form, leaving only what mattered. The beam of the lighthouse cut through the darkness, a single, unwavering line of gold. She adjusted the lens, her fingers numb from the cold, and wondered if anyone out there would ever see it.
The door creaked open behind her. She didn’t turn. The voice was familiar, low and rough, like sandpaper against bone. “You still do this every night?”
Clara exhaled, her breath visible in the air. “You don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
Eli stepped closer, his boots echoing on the metal stairs. He smelled of salt and smoke, a combination that made her think of shipwrecks and second chances. “I’m here to fix the generator,” he said, as if that explained everything.
She turned then, meeting his gaze. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, dark and shifting. “You’re late.”
“Traffic was hell,” he said, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And I wanted to see if you still lived in this tin can.”
Clara crossed her arms. “You know I do.”
The wind howled, rattling the windows. Eli stepped past her, his presence filling the small room. He moved with the confidence of someone used to being in control, but there was a tension in his shoulders, like he was holding something back. She wondered what it was.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, more to herself than him.
“I’m here because I wanted to be,” he replied. “And because I think you need someone to watch your back.”
Clara didn’t answer. She didn’t know if she believed him, but she couldn’t deny the way her heart had skipped at his words. The storm outside seemed to pause, as though waiting for something.
Eli reached for the generator, his hands calloused and sure. Clara watched him, the glow of the lighthouse casting long shadows across the walls. She told herself it was just the light, but she knew better. It was him. Always had been.
The first time she’d seen him, he’d been standing on the beach, soaked to the skin, staring out at the horizon like he was waiting for something. She’d thought he was a ghost then, a figure from a dream she couldn’t remember. But when he turned, his eyes met hers, and she knew he was real.
Now, as he worked, she felt the weight of that moment pressing against her chest. She wanted to ask him why he’d come back, why he’d chosen this place, this life. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the storm that raged outside and the chaos that lived inside her.
Eli finished with the generator and turned to her. “It’s running again,” he said. “For now.”
Clara nodded, but she didn’t move. The air between them felt thick, charged. She could almost taste it, like the sea before a storm.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said finally.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “I know.”
The wind roared again, and for a moment, everything was still. Then Eli stepped closer, his hand finding hers. His touch was warm, steady. Clara closed her eyes, letting the moment settle over her. She didn’t know what came next, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t afraid to find out.
The lighthouse beam cut through the night, a beacon in the dark. Somewhere out there, the storm raged on, but here, in this small room, everything felt possible.
