Chapter 46: Jake
I say it because I mean it. Because for once, I don’t want her to.
She blinks, then smiles—small at first, then brighter—and launches right back in. The words pour out of her like she’s been holding them in all day, like if she doesn’t get them out, she’ll burst. She talks too fast, stumbles over herself, backtracks, starts again, but never loses that shine. Her hands slice the air, pointing, tracing invisible lines, sketching what she sees in her head.
She’s… breathtaking.
Not because she’s trying to be. But because she isn’t. Because she’s in her own little world, and in that world the only thing that matters are the whales.
When she finally slows, catching her breath, I nod once. Keep my voice even. “Can you put the pictures on your computer? We’ll take a better look.”
“Yes,” she says quickly, already reaching for her bag. She slides the SD card out of the camera, fingers moving with practiced precision. The laptop clicks open, screen light painting her face in pale blue.
I glance at her notes spread across the table. Loops of handwriting, arrows that chase themselves in circles, abbreviations that might as well be code. Half of it makes sense, the other half only she could probably decipher. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is the way she looks right now, bent over the screen, determined, oblivious to everything else.
Her jacket’s on the chair beside her, heavy and still damp. The kind of wet that seeps through, slow and merciless, until it’s in your bones. She keeps glancing at it like she wants to put it back on, but she knows better.
When I first saw her come through the diner door, hair dripping in little strands across her face, front of her shirt sticking where the sea caught her—anger hit me so fast it burned. Hot. Overwhelming. I almost shoved back my chair and stormed straight to the docks, demanded to know which idiot let that happen. Reid. Liam. Finn. Didn’t matter who. Someone had fucked up.
But I didn’t. I stayed put. Sat there like stone, because storming off wouldn’t fix a damn thing.
And now I sit here, stone still, while she shivers. It’s small—barely there—but I catch it. The little tremor in her shoulders, the way she tries to cover it by flipping through her notes, pretending to be absorbed in the scrawl only she can read.
Every muscle in me wants to do something. Slide my jacket over her shoulders. Close the space between us. Let her lean against me until the cold shakes out of her bones.
But I don’t.
I sit here, watching. Jaw tight, hands useless. Because the moment I move, the moment I give into that impulse, I won’t be able to take it back.
So I stay still.
I catch the waitress before she can walk past. “Another coffee,” I say. I nod toward Madeline. “For her.”
The waitress scribbles it down and walks off. Madeline blinks, caught off guard. “Oh—you didn’t have to—”
“You look cold,” I cut in.
Her mouth opens like she’s about to argue, but she shuts it again. When the cup comes, she thanks the waitress softly and curls her hands around it like it’s a lifeline. Steam rises into her face, painting her cheeks pinker than the cold already did.
Then she turns the laptop toward me. It lags, stutters, the fan wheezing like it’s choking on dust. I don’t even need to touch it.
“You need a new one,” I tell her flatly.
Her head drops into her hands with a groan. “Reid said the same thing.” She peeks at me through her fingers. “Do you two ever stop tag-teaming me?”
“Not when we’re right,” I say.
She mutters something about fossils and curses under her breath as she wrestles with the files. “Fine. I’ll upload everything to the shared drive so you can look tomorrow. Assuming this thing doesn’t die mid-process.”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” I say, but I’m not looking at the screen anymore.
She shifts in her chair, turns her head just enough for the embroidery to catch the light. SWMRI. Black. Reid’s hat.
I know it instantly. And irritation curls hot in my chest before I can stop it.
So Reid listened this morning—took my words to heart, gave her something to keep the wind off. Fine. Good. That’s what I asked for.
But if he was considerate enough to warm her head… then why the hell is she sitting across from me now, damp jacket abandoned on the chair, hair curling wet at the ends, hands still trembling around a coffee I had to order for her?
Where was he then?
The thought gnaws at me, irrational and sharp. I wasn’t there, couldn’t have been, but I see the evidence laid out plain: Reid kept her from freezing, but not from this. Not from whatever left her shivering through her clothes, cheeks pale except for the raw pink at her nose.
I lean back, jaw tight, studying her. She blows gently across the coffee surface, lips parting just slightly, and steam curls up against her lashes. She looks tired but determined, like she’s trying to convince herself none of this matters.
She doesn’t realize it yet, but she’s already threaded herself into places I don’t let people near. Places that burn when I see her like this—cold, rattled, not taken care of the way she should’ve been.
I wanted her safe. I told Reid to make sure she was.
And somehow, she still ended up here.
I don’t know if that makes me angry at him.
Or at her.
Or at myself.
All I know is the sight of her shivering in Reid’s hat feels wrong.
Before I can let the anger sharpen into something she’ll feel, I start stacking her things. Notebook. Camera. The pen she’s been chewing. I slide them toward her bag.
“You’ve done enough for today,” I say. “Take it home.”
Her head snaps up, green eyes wide, startled. She looks like I just pulled the floor out from under her. And I see the thought flicker there—he’s going to keep me off the boat.
I see it written all over her, and my mouth tugs at the corner, almost a smile. Almost. I raise both hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Everyone’s landlocked tomorrow. The Vigil’s not going out. I’m not punishing you.”
Relief softens her shoulders, but only slightly. She still looks ready to defend herself, notes clutched in her fingers like a shield. “If you’d just let me explain—”
I lean in across the table, and the words die in her throat. “No,” I say quietly, firmly. “Go home.”
She blinks, startled by how close I’ve gotten, by the steadiness of my stare. She grips the strap of her bag until her knuckles blanch, eyes flicking down and then back up like she’s caught between defiance and obedience.
Seconds stretch. I can hear the hum of the old fridge behind the counter, the clink of cutlery from another table.
Finally, she exhales. “Thank you,” she murmurs, almost like it costs her to say it.
I hold her gaze, let the silence drag, then give one short nod.
She rises slowly, tucks her chair back with careful precision. For a heartbeat she just stands there, hovering, like she might say something more. Then she turns, the bell over the door chiming softly as she disappears into the fog-damp street.
I sit back, drag a hand over my jaw. Only then do I notice it—her jacket, draped over the chair across from me, still damp at the sleeves.