The wind was soft that morning—barely a whisper across the dunes. Eli stood barefoot on the deck with a mug of coffee in one hand and a folded blanket in the other. The sea was still sleepy, the tide low and calm, and behind him, he could hear Jasper humming faintly from the kitchen.
Mason had left early to help Talia organize leftover materials from the campaign. It had been a week since the town's victory over Aurelius, but already the buzz was fading. Life was resettling into quieter rhythms—porch lights and soft jazz in the evenings, long drives into the hills, shared silences that felt fuller than words.
But something in Eli itched.
Not in a bad way—just a low thrum, like the pull of a current beneath the surface.
He was happy. He knew that. And yet, happiness came with its own kind of fear. Because now that he had something to lose—someone to lose—he couldn't stop looking over his shoulder.
"Penny for your thoughts," Jasper said, stepping out with two mugs and a grin.
"You already brought coffee," Eli said, taking one anyway.
"Then the second one's just a bribe." Jasper nudged his shoulder. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Where you disappear inside your head and forget the rest of us exist."
Eli exhaled. "It's weird, isn't it? How everything can finally be going right, and your brain still tries to convince you something's wrong."
Jasper took a sip, then nodded. "It's called trauma, bro."
Eli chuckled, but it didn't fully land. "You think I'm screwing this up?"
"Screwing what up?"
"Him. Mason. Us."
Jasper looked out toward the bay. "No. I think you're scared because you care too much. That's not failure. That's proof you're in it."
They stood there in quiet for a moment, just the waves and the breeze and the sharp scent of salt.
Then Jasper added, "But if you don't tell him how you feel soon, I will start calling you a coward."
Later that afternoon, Mason returned with salt in his hair and dirt on his boots, humming as he walked through the door. Eli watched him cross the living room—confident, easy, like he belonged.
He did.
And that realization struck Eli hard.
"I was thinking," Mason said, setting a paper bag on the table. "We haven't left town since this all started. What if we took a trip? Just the two of us. Overnight. I found this cabin near Wildflower Ridge. Totally off-grid. No cell service. Just stars and trees."
Eli blinked. "You want to disappear into the woods with me?"
"I want to disappear with you. The woods are just a bonus."
Eli laughed, then nodded. "Okay. Yeah. Let's go."
The drive to the cabin took just under two hours. Mason let Eli handle the playlist, which led to an impromptu duet of early 2000s heartbreak ballads. They took the scenic route—long, winding roads through pine-dense forests and fields gold with spring.
The cabin was small but cozy—pine walls, a wood-burning stove, and a single queen bed under a skylight. No TV. No Wi-Fi. Just the distant hoot of an owl and the slow drip of melting snow off the roof.
That night, after dinner and too many marshmallows, they lay side by side in bed, watching stars through the glass above.
Mason turned toward him, brushing hair from Eli's forehead. "Can I tell you something?"
Eli nodded.
"I keep thinking about Jonah," Mason said softly. "Not because I miss him. But because I didn't realize how closed off I'd become. Until you. You cracked something open I didn't know was still alive."
Eli's throat tightened. "I was scared of saying too much. I still am."
Mason shifted closer. "Say it anyway."
"I love you," Eli said, voice barely a whisper.
Mason didn't flinch. Didn't look away. He just smiled, slow and warm and real. "I love you, too."
They made love with the urgency of people who had known loss. Not for the first time, but for the first time without fear. Each touch was a promise. Each kiss, a memory rewritten.
And when they finally fell asleep, tangled beneath the stars, Eli dreamt of water and fire and things that didn't hurt anymore.
---
Morning at the cabin came with soft birdsong and the distant gurgle of a stream. Eli woke first, sunlight slicing through the skylight and warming the bed in gold. Mason was still asleep, one arm flung across Eli's chest, face peaceful in a way Eli rarely got to see.
He studied him for a while—his lashes, the soft rise and fall of his breath, the faint crease in his brow that never quite faded, even in rest.
Eli wanted to memorize this.
Not just the image, but the feeling: that he was known. That someone saw him and still chose to stay.
By the time Mason stirred, Eli had already started a pot of coffee and stepped outside to sketch the treeline. The air was crisp, laced with pine and something faintly floral—wild violets, maybe.
Mason leaned in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"You look like a woodland nymph," he said.
Eli snorted. "If you're calling me a faun, I'm going back to bed."
"I said nymph. That's the classy kind."
They shared breakfast on the porch—eggs, burnt toast, and the last of the strawberries from the cooler. Mason talked about maybe planting a garden this summer. Eli talked about reopening his art portfolio. It was idle talk, small dreams, but they were building something—conversation by conversation.
Later, they hiked the trail behind the cabin, hand in hand, laughing more than they talked. Mason slipped once on a mossy rock and insisted Eli pulled him down on purpose.
By mid-afternoon, the clouds thickened, and a light rain began to fall. They didn't rush back.
It felt like the world had slowed for them, just for a moment.
But peace, as always, was temporary.
When they returned home to Salt Bay that evening, something was off.
There was a crowd gathered near the marina—small, tight-lipped. A figure stood at the center, flanked by two town council members and a couple of local reporters.
Eli squinted. "Do you know who that is?"
Mason stopped walking.
His body tensed like a wire pulled too tight.
"No," he said. But his voice didn't sound convinced.
As they got closer, Jasper came jogging up the boardwalk, face drawn.
"You're not going to like this," he said.
"Like what?" Mason asked.
Jasper hesitated. "His name's Daniel Reese. Reporter. Freelance, but he's been circling around Aurelius for months. Now that they've backed out of the land deal, he's digging into the locals—wants a story on 'activists who disrupted corporate progress.'"
Eli frowned. "That's a stretch. We're not a damn protest group."
"Well," Jasper said, "apparently he thinks someone in town tipped off the press during the zoning leak. He's sniffing around."
Mason's expression darkened. "So we're the next scandal?"
"Maybe not all of us," Jasper said slowly. "But he asked for you by name, Mason."
Eli blinked. "What? Why?"
Jasper glanced between them. "Something about your arrest record. New Orleans. 2015."
Silence punched the air flat.
Mason didn't move. His eyes had gone distant, jaw tight.
"I handled that," he said. "That was sealed."
"Apparently someone unsealed it," Jasper replied. "And now he wants an interview. Or he'll run with what he has."
Eli looked at Mason. "What happened in 2015?"
Mason didn't answer.
Not then.
Not there.
They didn't speak on the walk back.
Eli didn't press. Mason's silence wasn't just guilt—it was armor.
Back at the house, Mason sat at the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
"It was a bar fight," he said at last. "I was drunk. Angry. It was the anniversary of Jonah's death, and I lost it. I broke a guy's nose. He was being homophobic, but that doesn't excuse it."
Eli sat beside him, silent.
"I spent a night in jail. Did community service. Went to therapy. I swore I'd never be that guy again."
"You're not," Eli said.
Mason looked at him, and for a moment, there was something raw and small in his eyes.
"I didn't want you to know me like that."
"Then you didn't want me to know all of you."
That hung between them.
Not unkind.
Just true.
That night, the article went up online. It wasn't vicious—but it was suggestive. "Local Hero With a Past" was the headline. It painted Mason as a once-violent, emotionally volatile man who had "buried his shame beneath civic pride."
No quotes. No direct sources.
Just enough to make people whisper.
Jasper was furious.
Talia wanted to sue.
Mason, for the first time, looked tired.
But Eli—Eli only felt more certain.
Because the Mason he knew wasn't a headline. He was the man who watched stars through skylights and cried during commercials. The man who planted tomatoes and made the best grilled cheese on the coast. The man who had survived loss, clawed his way back to life, and still dared to love again.
He deserved better.
The next morning, Salt Bay buzzed with questions.
A few curious neighbors knocked, offering awkward condolences disguised as concern. The diner was quieter than usual. Mason kept his head down, Eli's hand lightly on his back, guiding him through the noise without words.
At the community center, Talia stood by the bulletin board, reading the printed version of the article someone had tacked up anonymously.
"Cowards," she muttered, tearing it down. "If they have something to say, they can say it to my face."
Jasper was less composed. He slammed his coffee onto the table and turned to Mason. "You don't have to take this. Let me talk to a friend in legal. They can't just—"
"It's fine," Mason said. "Let it blow over."
"No, it's not fine," Eli interrupted, sharper than usual. "You think taking the hits quietly makes you noble, but it just lets people rewrite your story for you."
Mason looked up, surprised.
Eli's eyes were fierce. "Let me help you tell it your way. Not through some reporter's lens. Yours."
Mason hesitated. "How?"
Eli swallowed. "We host a town forum. You speak. Tell them the truth. Everything. Your past, your growth, why you came back, what Salt Bay means to you."
"That's insane," Jasper muttered. "He doesn't owe anyone a damn explanation."
"No," Eli said, calmer now. "But maybe he owes it to himself."
That weekend, they rented the small hall beside the library.
It wasn't packed, but the room was full enough—neighbors, small business owners, even a few curious teens with phones out, ready to post every word.
Mason stood at the front, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. Eli stood in the back, arms crossed tightly, heart pounding.
Then Mason spoke.
"My name is Mason Price. You might've read a headline about me this week."
A pause.
A breath.
"In 2015, I made a mistake. I was grieving and drunk and angry at the world, and I hurt someone. I served my time. I spent years learning how to live differently. And I'm not proud of it—but I'm not hiding from it either."
The room was quiet.
"I came back to Salt Bay because I wanted to build something better. Not just for me, but for this town. And I didn't do it alone. I had people who believed in me. Who reminded me I was worth something more than my worst night."
Eli felt his throat catch.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," Mason said. "I just wanted you to hear it from me."
Silence followed.
Then a hand raised.
Mrs. Linwood—the elderly woman who ran the floral shop—stood up. "You fixed my porch without charging me," she said. "And brought soup when I was sick. That's the Mason I know."
Another voice: "You fought for this town when no one else would."
A third: "I'd rather stand behind a man who owns his past than one who hides it."
The clapping started small.
But it grew.
And Eli saw Mason close his eyes for a brief second, letting it wash over him—not applause, but release
That night, as they lay in bed again, Eli curled against him.
"I've never been prouder of anyone in my life," he whispered.
Mason kissed his forehead. "You gave me the courage."
Eli looked up. "You gave it to yourself. I just reminded you it was there."
Outside, the tide rolled in. The wind shifted. And something heavy finally lifted between them.
This was no longer survival.
This was beginning.