The wind carried the scent of sea salt through Dawnridge as Lena stepped into The Rusted Anchor Café. Mornings had grown familiar here—coffee brewed strong, laughter from the kitchen, and the low hum of conversation. But today, something felt off. Maybe it was the silence she'd left in her studio last night. Or maybe it was the way Eli had pulled away after their walk on the beach.
He hadn't shown up this morning like he usually did. No knock on the studio door, no smell of sawdust or sound of his boots outside. Just quiet.
Lena stirred her coffee slowly, the silver spoon clinking against the ceramic cup. It wasn't like they were anything. She barely knew him. And yet… she felt his absence in a way that startled her.
"Waiting for someone?" Clara's voice broke her thoughts.
Lena looked up at the café owner, who raised a knowing brow as she wiped her hands on her apron.
"No," Lena replied too quickly. "Just needed a break from painting."
Clara didn't buy it. "He'll come around," she said, then walked off to deliver a plate of pancakes to a nearby table.
Outside, the door creaked open.
Lena turned instinctively, but it wasn't Eli.
Disappointed in herself, she went back to her coffee. She didn't want to need him. Didn't want to expect anything. But expectations were sneaky. They snuck in through the cracks left by hope.
---
That afternoon, she returned to her studio. The light streamed in golden across the floorboards, casting long shadows on the canvas she'd left unfinished. Her brush hovered above the paint, but her heart wasn't in it.
She kept thinking about the beach.
The way Eli had looked at her.
The way he'd hesitated, as if something kept him from stepping closer.
What was holding him back?
She was still staring at the blank canvas when she heard footsteps outside.
The door didn't open.
She moved to the window and caught sight of him—Eli—standing a few feet from the porch, hands in his pockets, looking like he was debating whether to knock or walk away.
She opened the door before he decided.
"You disappeared," she said.
"I needed space," he replied. "Didn't mean to worry you."
"I wasn't worried." It came out too sharp. Too fast. She regretted it the moment it left her lips.
Eli looked away. "I shouldn't have come."
"Then why did you?"
He hesitated, jaw tight. "Because I keep finding myself here."
Lena stepped back, leaving the door open. An invitation.
Eli entered slowly. The familiar scent of turpentine and sea breeze hung between them.
"I'm not good at this," he said, voice low. "Letting people in."
"Neither am I."
They stood in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken things.
"You want to know what the wall is?" Eli asked, finally looking at her. "It's the fact that I lost someone too."
Lena's breath caught.
"My brother," he said. "He was eighteen. Motorcycle accident. I was supposed to be there that night, and I wasn't. I still carry that."
Lena reached for the stool beside her, sitting slowly. Her hands trembled slightly.
"I lost my husband," she whispered. "Cancer. He died in my arms. I watched the light leave his eyes, and I've been trying to paint it back ever since."
The quiet that followed wasn't empty—it was full. Of grief, of memory, of mutual understanding.
Eli stepped closer. "Maybe the wall between us… isn't meant to be broken. Maybe it's meant to be leaned on."
She looked up at him, eyes soft. "Maybe."
And for the first time, she didn't feel alone.
The next day brought a thunderstorm.
Dark clouds rolled in from the sea, heavy and brooding. Rain lashed against the windows of Lena's studio as she worked on a new canvas, the atmosphere mirroring her unease. Eli hadn't stopped by. Again.
She told herself not to read into it. But his confession yesterday had shaken something loose inside her, and now the silence felt heavier than ever.
Just as she dipped her brush into a swirl of gray, a knock came. Sharp. Urgent.
She opened the door to find Eli—soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead, his expression unreadable.
"I need your help," he said.
She blinked. "What happened?"
"My father had a fall. He's refusing to go to the clinic, and I can't get through to him." He paused, as if weighing whether to say more. "He listens to you."
"Me?" Lena asked, startled. "I've only met him once."
"He said you reminded him of my mom." Eli gave a short laugh. "Stubborn. Gentle, but don't take crap. Please."
Without another word, Lena grabbed her coat.
---
Eli's house was a small craftsman tucked behind an overgrown garden. Inside, it smelled of cedar and rain. His father—a wiry, white-haired man with fierce blue eyes—sat in an old armchair, his ankle swollen and clearly bruised.
"I told him he needs to go in," Eli said, pacing. "But he won't listen."
"I'm not leaving my home just to hear some doctor tell me what I already know," his father snapped.
Lena knelt beside him, her voice calm. "And what do you know?"
"That it hurts and they'll wrap it in some damn bandage and charge me three hundred dollars."
She smiled faintly. "Probably. But what if it's worse? What if it needs more than that? What if stubbornness means you can't walk right for the rest of your life?"
He looked at her, eyes narrowing. "You're as bossy as my Margaret."
"Is that a compliment?"
He chuckled. "She'd have liked you."
Eventually, he agreed to go—with Lena in the passenger seat beside him and Eli driving in tense silence.
---
Later, after his father had been admitted and taken for X-rays, Eli sat beside Lena in the clinic's quiet waiting room. The fluorescent lights buzzed. The rain had softened to a whisper outside.
"You handled him better than I ever could," Eli muttered.
Lena gave a soft laugh. "You were just too close."
He nodded, then looked over at her. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do," he said. "Not just for today. For listening yesterday. For not walking away."
A long pause followed.
"Lena…" His voice caught. "I'm scared. Of this. Of you. Of what it means to start caring again."
Her throat tightened. "Me too."
They sat in silence again, not leaning in, not touching. But something had shifted. Trust, fragile and trembling, had been born.
And even though the wall between them still stood, it no longer felt impenetrable.
The clinic discharged Eli's father just after sunset with a brace and strict instructions to rest. Lena offered to help settle him in, and despite his protests, she stayed—making tea while Eli got his father comfortable.
By the time they stepped out onto the porch, the rain had stopped. The sky was bruised purple, stars trying to peek through thinning clouds. The scent of wet earth and woodsmoke lingered in the air.
Lena leaned against the porch railing, her arms crossed loosely. Eli joined her, his presence quiet but electric beside her.
"I didn't realize how much of myself I shut down until recently," he said, voice soft. "How easy it was to let silence fill every space."
Lena looked up at him. "Me too."
He turned toward her, one hand resting near hers on the railing. Their fingers didn't touch, but the space between them buzzed with unspoken tension.
"I've spent so long building walls, I'm not sure who I am without them," he admitted. "But when I'm with you…"
"You feel like you want to find out," she whispered, finishing the sentence for him.
He nodded, meeting her eyes. "Exactly."
The porch light flickered above them, casting a warm glow. The town below was quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
"I'm not asking for everything," Eli said. "I just want to be real with you. No pretending. No hiding."
Lena's heart beat faster. "Then let's start with now."
She stepped closer, her hand reaching to gently brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead. He caught her wrist softly, not to stop her—but to hold her there, in that moment.
His eyes searched hers. "Can I kiss you?"
"Yes," she breathed.
It wasn't a desperate kiss or a perfect one—it was tender, searching, full of hesitation and hope. His lips pressed against hers like a question, and she answered with the slow, certain return of someone who'd been waiting.
When they pulled apart, foreheads touching, Lena smiled for the first time in what felt like years—smiled not because the grief had vanished, but because something else had bloomed beside it.
A fragile, flickering warmth.
"I'm glad you knocked on my door, Eli Turner," she whispered.
He gave a small laugh, still leaning into her. "You didn't slam it in my face. That's something."
The porch light finally steadied above them, the storm behind them. And for the first time in a long time, the wall between them didn't seem so tall after all.