Chapter 17: Madeline
The kitchen is quiet except for the low hum of the oven and the occasional pop of sauce bubbling over the edge of the baking dish. The windows are cracked just slightly, letting in the smell of salt and spruce and the wet stone of the nearby cliffs.
I’ve been reading for the past hour. Research logs, current maps, migration charts. The notes Charlie gave me are marked with quick, efficient handwriting and little pencil stars where something important was logged — changes in water salinity, a sudden temperature drop, sightings that didn’t follow the usual routes.
Some of the whales come back year after year. I trace one of the ID numbers with my fingertip. Same female, seventeen years in a row.
It’s strange — that something so massive, so unknowable, could also be so dependable.
It makes me want to be dependable, too.
I pull my hair over one shoulder and reread a note for the third time. I already studied this stuff in school — currents, feeding patterns, migratory behavior — but textbooks don’t tell you what the wind feels like at five a.m. when your hands are freezing and your notes are soaked through. Reid made that part very clear.
“This isn’t your lab.”
I sigh and press the heel of my palm into the page, frustrated. Not at the work. At him.
The man’s made of concrete. Every sentence wrapped in skepticism, every compliment so backhanded it might as well be a slap. But he knows what he’s doing. You can hear it in the way he talks about the work — not romanticized, not poetic. Practical. Exacting. Earned.
Still. He doesn’t have to be an ass about it.
The front door opens before I can finish that thought — the scrape of boots, then raised voices, then—
“I’m not saying cheddar’s bad,” Liam says, voice raised from the front hall. “I’m saying mozzarella makes more sense.”
“You think mozzarella’s more versatile than cheddar?” Finn’s tone is dry, like this is the most offensive thing he’s heard all day.
“Absolutely.”
They step into the kitchen mid-argument. Their jackets are half unzipped, soaked at the seams. Liam’s got soot on the side of his pants and something dark under his fingernails. Finn looks like he’s already tried to clean his hands with seawater and failed.
“You guys look like you lost a fight with a fish factory,” I say, leaning on the counter.
Liam tosses a rag into the sink. “Wharf equipment caught fire.”
“It smoked,” Finn corrects. “Not everything’s a fire.”
“Smoke is pre-fire, genius.”
“I’m sorry,” I cut in. “Are you two fighting about lunch or arson?”
Finn points at Liam. “This man believes mozzarella is more useful than cheddar.”
Liam raises both brows like he’s just spoken gospel.
I blink. “Okay, and?”
They both look at me like I’m the tie-breaker in a national debate.
“Cheddar,” Finn says, deadpan. “Sharp. Melts well. Tastes like something. Mac and cheese? Cheddar. Grilled cheese? Cheddar.”
Liam lifts a hand. “Mozzarella is classic. Pizza. Lasagna. It stretches. It’s delicate.”
“You know what else is delicate?” Finn mutters. “Your reasoning.”
I cross my arms, eyes narrowed. “You’re really making me choose right now?”
“Absolutely,” they say in unison.
I pause for dramatic effect. They both lean forward slightly, waiting.
Then I shrug. “Too early in the summer for me to start making enemies.”
Finn groans and drops his head against the fridge door.
Liam points a finger. “Cowardice.”
“Diplomacy,” I counter.
They start bickering again, looping back into it as they stomp toward the stairs, peeling off wet socks and muttering about “fundamental misunderstanding of flavor profiles.”
Their voices trail up to the second floor, doors creaking, boots thudding.
And me?
I’m still standing at the counter, arms folded, the faintest smile curling at my mouth.
Just like that, the tension from earlier slips off my shoulders — not all of it, but enough. I glance at the timer on the oven, the papers on the table, the fading streak of seafoam on the kitchen window.
Reid Anderson might think I don’t belong.
But this?
This feels like a start.
I’m just setting plates on the table when I hear steps on the stairs.
Liam appears first, barefoot now, hair still damp from the shower, a hoodie tugged halfway over his head like he got distracted halfway through putting it on. His face is flushed from the heat or the stairs or maybe just from always moving.
“Hey,” he says, padding across the kitchen.
“Hey,” I echo, watching him tug the hoodie down fully.
He pauses beside me, then leans in slightly and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze — warm, brief, almost absentminded. But not unintentional.
“We’re not always like that,” he says, voice lower now, like it’s just for me. “If the arguing ever gets annoying, just say something. Seriously.”
I let out a small laugh, surprised. “I don’t mind. It’s actually... really entertaining.”
He smiles, wide and boyish, like that answer genuinely pleases him. “Good. Then we’re doing our jobs right.”
Finn barrels down the stairs just then, his voice coming before his body.
“One thing about this idiot,” he says, pointing at Liam, “is he’s always entertaining. Sometimes in a crash-and-burn sort of way, but still.”
Liam shrugs like he’s trying to play it cool, but Finn cuts in before he gets the chance.
“This guy lost an entire coil of line last year because he thought a seal was trying to communicate with him telepathically.”
I turn. “Wait—what?”
Finn doesn’t even look up as he grabs a glass from the cupboard. “He was staring into the water like it held the meaning of life. Whole deck went quiet. Then he just… dropped the rope.”
Liam groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It looked like it had something to say to me.”
“It was a seal,” Finn says, deadpan.
They’re about to spiral again — I can see it, that flicker of energy between them, the way they feed off each other like siblings who grew up sharing the same four walls and one brain cell — when I hold up a hand.
“Okay, wait. Time-out.” I glance between them. “How long have you two actually known each other?”
Liam drops into a chair across from Finn, glancing at me as he reaches for the water pitcher. “We both started working here last summer.”
“Different boats,” Finn adds. “But same schedules. Same weird hours. Same harborside bar with three-dollar nachos.”
I raise a brow. “And you just... clicked?”
They exchange a look. It’s not exactly sentimental, but it’s something. Familiar. Comfortable.
“We were both kind of lost, I think,” Liam says, shrugging one shoulder. “I was fresh out of school, didn’t know what I wanted. Finn had just quit a job he hated.”
“Deckhanding wasn’t the plan,” Finn admits. “But being on the water makes things quiet. Easier to think.”
“And you came back this year?” I ask.
They both nod.
“Didn’t even hesitate,” Liam says. “Once the season opened up again, we packed our stuff and headed east.”
I study them for a moment — the way they settle into the kitchen like they’ve always belonged to it. Like the house grew around them.
“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Finn leans back in his chair, running a hand through still-damp hair. “It’s not perfect. But there’s something about this place. It gets under your skin. In a good way.”
“Plus, we knew Charlie would be here,” Liam says. “And Sloane.”
Finn nods. “They’re family, whether they want to admit it or not.”
I smile at that — small, but genuine.
The timer beeps on the oven, breaking the moment.
“I’ll get it,” I say, moving toward the stove.
Behind me, they start bickering again — this time about whether you’re allowed to put ketchup on eggs or if that’s a war crime — and it’s so familiar, so easy, that for a moment, I forget how new everything still is.
I forget how unsure I felt this morning.
How Reid made me feel small.
Because here, in this small kitchen with mismatched chairs and windows that rattle in the wind, something’s starting to take shape. A rhythm. A warmth.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself sink into it.