The storm didn't start in the sky—it started in Lena's chest.
It had been building all week, like pressure in the air before lightning strikes. Each look, each unfinished sentence, every carefully polite nod between her and Eli—it all added up to a quiet, growing friction neither of them dared to name.
Until today.
The rain came without warning. Thick, heavy drops pounded against the windows of Eli's workshop as Lena stepped inside, her hair damp, her breath short.
She had come to return a sketch he'd left at her cottage. A simple charcoal drawing of the boat, its frame more complete now. But something in the shadows of the sketch—a certain tilt of lines, a hesitation—had made her restless. Maybe it reminded her too much of herself.
Eli looked up from the boat's skeleton when she entered. "Didn't expect you in this weather."
"I wasn't going to come," she said, holding out the drawing. "But I couldn't just… keep this."
He took it, eyes scanning the lines. "It's not finished."
"Neither is this," she said, gesturing between them. "Whatever this is."
He didn't respond right away, just stared at the sketch like it could offer better answers than she could.
"I thought maybe we were building something," she said, voice trembling. "Something real. But maybe I was just reading too much into every kind word. Every glance."
Eli set the drawing aside slowly, deliberately. "Lena…"
"No, let me say it. Because if I don't now, I'll never get the chance." She stepped closer, the storm outside echoing the one in her chest. "You pull me in, then push me away. You make me feel like I matter, then act like I don't. I'm tired, Eli. I'm tired of guessing."
He ran a hand through his damp hair, frustration thick in the gesture. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don't wake up every day wondering if I'm screwing this up?"
"You are," she said, softly. "But so am I."
They stood like that, hearts thrumming like thunder against ribs, the silence between them thick and painful.
"I lost someone, Lena," Eli finally said. "I let her down. I let everyone down. And now, every time I get close to someone…" His voice broke. "I panic. I freeze."
Lena blinked through the sting in her eyes. "You're not the only one who's scared."
Eli met her gaze, raw and unguarded for once. "Then why does it feel like we're on different shores, shouting across the water?"
"Because we are."
That was the moment it cracked. Whatever fragile bridge they'd built began to crumble under the weight of everything they hadn't said.
Lena turned before she could fall apart in front of him. She didn't look back as she stepped out into the rain, letting it soak her as she walked down the narrow road toward her cottage. The storm matched her breath, frantic and unrelenting.
She didn't sleep that night.
Instead, she packed a bag—one she hadn't touched since she arrived. She folded her paintings, slipped her brushes into a pouch, and stared out the window as lightning danced on the water.
By four a.m., she was in her car, the engine rumbling beneath her like a decision.
The road out of Dawnridge was long and winding, the kind that asked questions the farther you drove.
But she didn't make it far.
At the crest of the bluff, where the ocean stretched endlessly beneath the sky, Lena pulled over. The wind howled as she stepped out, the storm just starting to fade, giving way to a tired stillness.
She stood there for a long time, the sea crashing far below. And then—slowly—the sky began to change.
It was subtle at first. A soft blush across the clouds. A golden streak curling over the horizon.
And then the sun broke through.
It wasn't grand or loud. It was quiet and patient. A slow bloom of light that painted the world in hope.
Lena wrapped her arms around herself and watched as the sky opened.
She thought about her mother, who used to say that the sea always knew when you were ready to come home. About Caleb's laugh, the way it used to echo in the studio. About Eli's hands on the wood, rough and steady, hiding more pain than he ever let show.
She had come to Dawnridge to hide. To run from the echo of loss. But something had changed. The town hadn't fixed her—but it had held her. Given her silence when she needed it, space when she couldn't breathe, and maybe—just maybe—someone to care again.
As the light touched her skin, she felt something shift inside. Not a miracle. Not a resolution. But the beginning of one.
She turned, walked back to the car, and set her suitcase in the trunk again.
But this time, she didn't drive away.
She went home.