The first time Clara saw him, the sea was bleeding. Not literally—though the horizon had that reddish tint some called “blood sky”—but the way he stood at the edge of the dock, shoulders hunched against the wind, made her think of something broken. She’d been sketching the gulls, her charcoal smudged across her palms, when he approached. His boots echoed on the weathered planks, a sound that cut through the gulls’ cries.
“You’re the artist,” he said, not a question. His voice was low, like gravel underfoot.
She glanced up. He was taller than she expected, his face shadowed by a brimmed hat. The salt air had tugged his shirt tight against his chest, and she noticed the way his fingers twitched at his sides, as if holding something back.
“I’m Clara.” She didn’t offer a last name. Names felt like invitations to intrusion here.
He nodded, but didn’t introduce himself. Instead, he tilted his head toward her sketchbook. “That gull’s wings are too wide. They don’t fly like that.”
She frowned. “They do if they’re scared.”
A beat passed. Then he laughed, short and dry. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
She didn’t answer. The dock creaked beneath them, and the wind carried the scent of brine and diesel. He stood too close, but she didn’t move.
“I’m Jace,” he said finally. “I work at the marina.”
She nodded. The marina was a cluster of rusted boats and sun-bleached nets, a place where the sea’s secrets pooled in the gutters. She’d avoided it for years, but now, with the sketchbook open on her lap, she felt the weight of his gaze.
“You draw every day?” he asked.
“Sometimes.” She didn’t mention the nights she couldn’t sleep, how the sketches filled the silence.
He crouched beside her, studying the page. “This one’s different. The lines—there’s something… raw about it.”
She didn’t look at him. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’re not hiding,” he said. “Not fully.”
The words hung between them, and she wondered if he could hear the static in her chest, the way her pulse had quickened. She stood abruptly, brushing dust from her jeans. “I should go.”
He didn’t stop her. But as she turned, he said, “I’ll be here tomorrow.”
She didn’t look back.
—
The next morning, Clara arrived early at the dock, hoping to avoid him. The sky was gray, the air thick with the promise of rain. She set up her sketchbook on a wooden crate, her fingers numb from the cold. The gulls circled above, their cries sharp and restless.
“You’re persistent,” Jace said, appearing beside her without a sound.
She didn’t look up. “I’m not interested in games.”
He sat on the crate, his presence a quiet force. “I’m not playing any. I just… wanted to see if you’d come back.”
She finally met his eyes. They were brown, but there was something in them that made her think of storm clouds—dark, shifting. “Why?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket, lit it with a flick of his wrist. The ember glowed as he took a slow drag. “I don’t know. You seem like someone who’d stay if given a reason.”
She frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” He exhaled smoke into the wind. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
She didn’t respond. The cigarette burned down to his fingers, and he stubbed it out on the crate. “I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said again.
This time, she didn’t leave.
—
By the third day, the routine had settled between them. They sat in silence most of the time, but sometimes Jace would speak, his words sparse but deliberate. He told her about the marina—the creak of the boats, the way the tides dictated everything. He didn’t talk about himself much, but Clara noticed the way his hands lingered on the edges of his coat, as if holding something unseen.
“You ever think about leaving?” she asked one afternoon, her charcoal smudging a line on the page.
He looked at her, surprised. “Why would I?”
“Because this place… it’s not much.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She didn’t back down. “I know the way the air smells here. I know the sound of the waves when they crash against the rocks. I know it’s not enough.”
His expression darkened. “You think I don’t know that?”
The words hung between them, and Clara felt a flicker of something she couldn’t name. She looked away, focusing on the sketch in front of her. “Then why stay?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood and walked to the edge of the dock, staring out at the horizon. The wind tugged at his coat, and for a moment, she thought he might disappear into the sea.
“Because I don’t know how to leave,” he said quietly.
She didn’t know what to say. So she stayed, her pencil moving across the page, capturing the way the light hit his back, the way his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of everything unspoken.
—
The storm came without warning. One moment, the sky was clear; the next, it was a churn of black clouds and wind. Clara and Jace were halfway through their usual routine when the first gust hit, sending her sketchbook flying. She scrambled to catch it, but the pages scattered like leaves.
“Get inside!” Jace shouted over the wind.
She hesitated, watching the rain begin to fall in sheets. The dock was slick, the waves churning violently against the pilings. But then she saw it—a small boat, untethered, drifting toward the edge of the marina.
“That’s mine,” she said, more to herself than him.
Jace followed her gaze. “You’re not going out there.”
“I have to,” she said. “It’s my father’s boat.”
He grabbed her arm, his grip firm. “You’ll die out there.”
“Then let me die,” she snapped.
He didn’t let go. “You don’t get to do that.”
The wind howled, and Clara felt the tears mix with the rain on her cheeks. “I don’t have a choice.”
He stared at her, his face unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and ran toward the boat.
Clara followed, her boots slipping on the wet wood. When they reached the boat, Jace was already inside, struggling to tie it down. The wind threatened to tear the ropes from his hands.
“Hold this!” he shouted, tossing her a coil of rope.
She took it, her fingers numb, and together they secured the boat. The storm raged around them, but they didn’t stop. When it was done, Jace turned to her, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“You idiot,” she said, but there was no real anger in it.
He smiled faintly. “You’re not the only one who can be stubborn.”
They stood there, soaked and trembling, the storm raging behind them. And for the first time, Clara felt something shift between them—not just attraction, but a quiet understanding.
—
After the storm, things changed. The town talked about it for weeks—the way Clara had nearly drowned in the gales, how Jace had saved her. But Clara didn’t care about the rumors. She cared about the way Jace’s hands felt when he held hers, the way his voice softened when he said her name.
They started spending more time together, walking along the shore, sharing stories over coffee at the diner. Jace told her about his father, who’d left when he was a boy, and how the marina had become his anchor. Clara spoke of her mother’s absence, how she’d grown up chasing dreams that never quite materialized.
“You’re not alone in this,” Jace said one evening as they sat on the dock, watching the sun dip below the horizon.
She looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”
She felt a lump form in her throat. “I don’t know how to let someone in.”
“Then let me learn,” he said.
And she did. Slowly, carefully, she let him in—into her sketches, her silence, her heart. And in return, he showed her the quiet strength of the sea, the way it could break you but also heal you.
By the time summer ended, Clara knew what she wanted. Not a grand gesture, not a dramatic declaration. Just a simple truth: she belonged here, with him.
So when Jace asked her to stay, she didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll stay.”
And for the first time in her life, she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
