Chapter 50: Madeline
Two hours in, and the air in the café feels thicker than when we arrived. Maybe it’s the coffee, or the heat from too many bodies crammed around one table, or the fact that Finn and Liam have started sighing so dramatically it sounds like they’re in physical pain.
Every few minutes, one of them groans, earning an identical glance from both twins — that sharp, mirrored look that could peel paint.
“Do they… rehearse that?” Finn whispers to me, loud enough for the entire café to hear.
“Apparently not enough,” Reid mutters, not looking up from his notes.
Jake smirks behind his coffee. Charlie bites back a laugh.
But I’m focused. Really focused. My laptop is slow, my screen dim, my posture horrible — but it doesn’t matter. The pieces are starting to connect. Every note, every behavioral pattern I logged yesterday is leading somewhere. Something about the way the porpoises moved together in that cove—it’s almost like…
“Madeline,” Charlie says, her voice slicing through my thoughts. “You have to try this.”
I blink up, dazed, and only then notice the waitress setting down a basket of pastries. Warm. Flaky. Golden. Actual heaven.
Charlie hands me one, smiling. I take a bite. It melts.
“Oh my god,” I say through a mouthful. “That’s—wow. That’s so good.”
Charlie laughs, delighted, and pushes the basket closer. “Told you. This place alone makes the early mornings worth it.”
Somewhere to my left, Finn murmurs, “See, that’s the enthusiasm we should all aspire to.”
“Eat your croissant,” Jake says flatly, not looking up.
Finn grins. “Yes, boss.”
A few minutes later, Jake closes the safety file and looks at the deckhands over the rim of his mug. “You two can finish reading the rest tomorrow. Just make sure you know it by heart in case the inspector actually shows up.”
The words barely leave his mouth before Finn and Liam jump to their feet like they’ve been released from prison. In the process, Finn’s elbow almost takes out my coffee.
“Careful!” I squeak, steadying it.
“Sorry, sorry!” he says, grinning, and before I can react, both of them lean down and hug me from behind in perfect unison. I freeze, startled, my brain short-circuiting.
“Thanks for suffering with us, Mads,” Finn says into my ear.
“She’s the only reason we survived this long,” Liam adds.
I can feel my face heating. “Okay, okay, you’re both crushing me, go away.”
They laugh and untangle themselves, and I swear I catch the faintest sound of a low throat-clearing from across the table.
Charlie giggles so hard she nearly drops her pen. “You guys are ridiculous.”
Liam gives a mock salute on the way out. Finn points at my laptop. “Don’t work too hard, genius.”
“I’ll try,” I mutter, still red.
They’re gone a second later, and Charlie’s phone starts ringing. She glances at the screen. “That’s the supplier for the new hydrophones. I’ll take it outside—it’s loud in here.”
She slides out of the booth, grabbing her notebook and coffee. “I’ll be back in, like, fifteen minutes.”
And just like that, she’s gone too.
Now it’s just the three of us.
The twins. And me.
My fingers keep typing, pretending to be busy, pretending I don’t notice the shift in the air when the noise of everyone else fades away.
I can feel them there. The scrape of a chair. The faint clink of a mug being set down. The rustle of papers.
But I don’t look up.
Not even when I sense Reid’s gaze flick toward me like a physical touch—quick, precise, assessing.
Not even when Jake shifts in his seat, the leather squeaking, that calm, steady energy that somehow feels just as dangerous as his brother’s silence.
I keep typing. My report. My notes. Anything to keep my heart from hammering out of my chest.
Because it’s quiet now.
Too quiet.
And it’s starting to feel like I’m the only sound left in the room.
Not even two minutes after the others leave, Jake finally speaks.
“Are you ready to show us your report?”
His voice cuts through the silence like a clean line — calm, but expectant.
I blink, caught off guard, then nod quickly. “Yeah—yeah, I am.”
I turn my laptop toward them, the dull hum of the ancient thing filling the small corner of the café. My fingers hover above the keyboard before I hit play on the first clip.
The screen lights up with movement — the calm ripples of the cove, the faint shimmer of fins breaking the surface. I can’t help the smile that creeps up my face.
“So,” I start, leaning forward a bit, “based on the footage and measurements from yesterday… the babies in this pod are really young. Less than a month old, I’d say, judging by their size and behavior.”
Reid looks up from his notes at that. Jake leans in slightly.
I scroll through more clips, words tumbling out faster than I can think. “See here? Their surfacing patterns — really erratic, but tight. They’re staying close to the adults, and their skin pigmentation still has that pale tint. I compared them with the data from the North Sea and... it matches almost perfectly.”
Jake hums, the sound low, approving. “So, a nursery?”
“Yes!” The word comes out too loud, too eager, and I can feel my cheeks warm. “Exactly. That’s what I was hoping to confirm. Which means—” I click again, pulling up a map of the area, my fingers flying. “—the cove is acting as a natural shelter. It’s protected from the stronger currents, perfect for newborns.”
I can’t stop smiling. The kind that starts small but takes over completely before you realize it. “It’s good news,” I say softly. “Really good. Porpoise populations have been struggling for years, and if Northhaven is becoming a nursery ground, that’s huge. It means the ecosystem’s stabilizing, at least locally.”
Reid’s arms are crossed, but he’s watching me. Closely. Not with the same coldness I’ve seen before — this feels different. Focused. Intense. Like he’s seeing something he hadn’t expected.
Jake nods slowly, eyes flicking between me and the screen. “How many did you say you counted?”
I laugh under my breath. “Honestly? I lost track. There were so many. Usually, it’s less than a dozen in one pod, but this—this was something else entirely. I think at least forty, maybe more. I’ve never read about numbers that high in a single nursery group.”
“That’s…” Jake leans back, thoughtful. “That’s rare.”
Reid says nothing. His jaw flexes once, then his gaze drops to the footage again.
I glance between them, still beaming. “It could mean we’re seeing a recovery pattern that wasn’t documented before. Maybe because the conditions in this part of the gulf are changing, or there’s a food source nearby drawing them in. Either way—”
“Either way,” Jake finishes quietly, “it’s something worth protecting.”
The way he says it — calm, measured — still makes my chest swell.
For a moment, no one speaks. The hum of my laptop, the chatter from the front counter, the soft clinking of mugs — it’s all background noise.
And I realize I’m holding my breath.
Because both of them are looking at the screen like it’s something sacred.
Something worth fighting for.
And for the first time since I arrived here, I feel like maybe — just maybe — they finally see what I see.