Chapter 54: Madeline
The shower feels unreal.
Hot, heavy water pounding down on me, the air thick with steam, the tiles fogging over so fast it’s like the world outside doesn’t exist. I press my palms flat against the wall and let the heat crawl through my shoulders, down my spine, until every muscle that’s been knotted since the coffee shop finally starts to unclench.
When I got home earlier, the whole house was alive.
Finn and Liam were being their usual selves—two overgrown golden retrievers disguised as men. Laughing, wrestling, throwing crumpled napkins at each other while I sat at the table pretending to be horrified but secretly trying not to choke on my food. They kept putting things on my plate like I hadn’t eaten in days, kept saying “you’ve got to try this,” like it wasn’t just diner leftovers. And Charlie, sitting on the counter with her hair tied up and that bright smile that could melt glaciers—she laughed at everything. And she is so, so beautiful when she laughs. The whole house felt warm, loud, chaotic in the best way.
And I loved it. God help me, I did.
I love these people already, even though it’s barely been a few weeks. It feels like I’ve known them for years, like I stumbled into a family I didn’t realize I needed.
But now the house is quiet again, and all that warmth is gone.
The only sound left is the steady hiss of water and my own stupid thoughts that won’t stay quiet.
When my phone rang today—
It could’ve been anyone. Spam. A telemarketer. My bank, maybe.
But the moment I saw Unknown Number on the screen, it was like the floor disappeared beneath me. My stomach dropped. My throat locked up.
And suddenly I was back there.
Back to those nights where it would ring again and again, always the same number I didn’t recognize.
Back before the power went out.
Before the knock at the door.
Before I had to grab my bag and slip out the back without looking behind me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, drag my hands down my face. I tell myself it’s fine. I’m fine.
That was a different life.
But then there’s Reid.
Because somehow, he was there tonight—of all people, him.
He didn’t ask what was wrong. Didn’t tell me to calm down or get over it.
He just sat there. On that cold rock, next to me.
Told me about strawberries—real ones, wild ones that grow somewhere in the forest. Said they’re small and sweet, that he used to go pick them with Charlie sometimes, back when things were simpler.
And when I smiled, he didn’t look away.
He lifted me by the waist like I weighed nothing. His hands steady, sure, warm even through my clothes.
And when he whispered my name before walking me home…
Now, standing here under the water, I touch the spot where his hands had been, and it’s like they’re still there—ghosts of heat that refuse to fade.
I didn’t think he was capable of that kind of softness.
Not him. Not Reid Anderson, with his sharp jaw and sharper silences, who looks at me like I’m an error in his system.
Any girl who ever gets to see that side of him—the one who talks about strawberries and says your name in such a gentle way—she’ll be lucky.
So damn lucky.
But that’s not me.
It can’t be.
He was just being kind. A decent boss, checking on the girl who keeps screwing up his rhythm.
Because when I told him I knew he hated me, he didn’t deny it.
I towel off and pull on one of Charlie’s old shirts she gave to me—soft, oversized, smells faintly like lavender detergent—and crawl into bed. My hair’s still damp against the pillow, but I don’t care. For the first time all day, I actually feel warm.
I grab my phone and scroll back to the SWMRI group chat. The message Jake sent earlier sits at the top, still unanswered by half the team.
Jake: Weather looks good. Back on the water tomorrow morning.
That’s why everyone turned in early tonight. Even Finn and Liam gave up their late-night movie routine. Charlie mumbled something about "being coherent for once" before disappearing into her room.
I lie there for a while, the sheets cool against my skin, listening to the distant crash of waves and the sighing wind in the trees.
When I first moved here, those sounds used to terrify me—the creak of the house, the moaning branches, the constant pulse of the ocean.
Now, they’re… steadying. Familiar. Like the sea’s keeping time just for me.
I leave my tiny reading light on, like I always do. The soft glow keeps the dark from pressing in too much. I tell myself it’s not childish. Just practical.
My phone pings.
The sound slices through the quiet, and I jolt upright before realizing it’s just a text.
Finn: u alive?
I smile, rolling onto my side.
Me: Barely. What about you?
Finn: ate too many fries. might not make it. tell my story.
Me: your story is that you stole half of mine too.
Finn: That was a tax. A friendship tax.
Me: you’re not the government, finn.
Finn: nah, i’m nicer. and better looking.
I laugh out loud—quietly at first, then harder when another message pops up.
Finn: I can hear you through the wall, Quinn.
I freeze, half-embarrassed, half-delighted.
Me: Sorry.
Finn: Don’t be. It’s a good sound.
My smile falters for a second, but it doesn’t fade. There’s a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the shower.
Another text buzzes in.
Finn: Goodnight, Quinn.
I stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard before I type back.
Me: Goodnight, Finn.
I set the phone on my nightstand and let the light hum beside me, soft and steady.
Outside, the waves whisper against the shore.