The ocean called to him.

It was relentless. Even here, trapped within the stone walls of the lighthouse, with the scent of burning oil and old parchment pressing in, he could hear her. She whispered in the crash of waves against the cliffs, in the wind that rattled the windowpanes, in the storm that refused to pass.

Elias had spent his life chasing the sea, carving his name into the tides with each stolen ship, each reckless voyage, each whispered legend passed between sailors in candlelit taverns.

He was not meant for stillness.

And yet, here he was.

Stranded. Shipless. Trapped in a place where time seemed to move differently, where the storm curled its fingers around the horizon and refused to let go.

Where she was.

Liora moved about the cabin with quiet ease, tidying up after breakfast, humming under her breath. She wasn't graceful—far from it, actually. She bumped her hip against the table, nearly toppled a stack of books, and at one point, muttered a curse when she knocked a spoon onto the floor.

But there was something about her movements that unsettled him.

She was comfortable here. This was her world. Her lighthouse, her books, her storm. The life she had built was one of quiet resilience, of ink-stained fingers and wind-tangled hair, of tending a light that guided beings to safety but never called them home.

And gods help him, he was getting used to it.

The warmth of a home-cooked meal. The scent of lavender tea curling through the air. The way she tilted her head when she thought, how her lips pulled to one side before she spoke.

How long had it been since he had been near a woman like her? One who didn't want something from him—riches, promises, danger?

Elias knew the look in her eyes.

The look of wanting.

He had seen it on countless lasses before. Eyes alight with the thrill of temptation, the spark of reckless curiosity. A hunger for adventure. For danger. For him.

But Liora's wasn't quite the same.

It wasn't him she longed for.

Not entirely.

Her gaze stretched beyond the walls of her lighthouse, beyond the storm that kept her bound to this place. He saw it in the way she lingered by the window, staring at the sea like it was whispering a secret she couldn't quite hear.

She wanted something more.

And Elias could never be the man to give it to her.

She deserved better. Someone who would stay, someone who could offer her something more than stolen nights and empty promises.

And yet...

The storm had not passed. He was still here. And the longer he remained, the harder it was to ignore the way she was getting under his skin.

With a slow exhale, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. "I need something to do."

Liora, who had been reorganizing a stack of papers on her desk, glanced up. "You should be resting."

"I've done enough resting." He gestured vaguely to the bookshelves lining the walls. "You done anymore reading?"

She frowned, wiping her ink-stained fingers on her apron. "Yes. Why?"

Elias pushed to his feet, stretching the stiffness from his muscles as he wandered toward the nearest shelf. His fingers ghosted over the spines, trailing over the worn leather and frayed pages.

He had never been much of a reader. Stories were for people who lived in one place long enough to finish them.

But the old keeper's book had unsettled him.

The dreams. The longing. The way the words bled desperation.

"If she ever reads this, tell her I kept my promise."

Elias frowned, shaking the thought away. His eyes landed on a small, leather-bound volume nestled between heavier tomes. He pulled it free, flipping through the pages. More handwriting in the margins. More notes.

"At least I'm not the only who gets restless around here," he muttered.

Liora turned fully toward him now, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped closer. "I was reading through that last night. It's oddly beautiful, isn't it? Sad, but beautiful."

He hummed to himself, head tilting as he read through the words scribbled in a hurried mess on any blank space inside the book. "If you're into that sort of thing, I suppose."

She scoffed, hands on her hips. "Well, excuse me. It's not like I've had much experience, so I am into that sort of thing." Liora shook her head and turned away, returning to activities. "Lords above, save me from this man."

Shooting her a small glare, he returned to reading through the notes. Page after page, he flipped through it until he guided himself to sit back down, studying the handwriting. It was...oddly familiar. He was almost certain he had seen the handwriting before, though that was impossible, wasn't it?

One quote leapt out at him.

"The storm rages, but it is nothing compared to the war in my heart. I should leave—I should let you go. But how can I, when you are the lighthouse and I am the fool who always finds his way back?"

Elias placed a hand over his mouth, feeling the scruff beneath his touch. "Whoever this old man was, he had it bad."

Shutting the book, his fingers lingering on the worn leather cover. Something about the words gnawed at him, like saltwater eroding the edges of something long buried.

His pulse ticked in his throat.

It was too much. Too familiar. Too true.

Liora let out a soft huff from across the room. "Yeah, well. I can only imagine how that goes."

That got his attention.

Elias lifted his head, gaze snapping to her as she sat at her desk, idly scribbling in her own journal.

"You never had a beau, lass?"

The scratching of her quill halted, and the air between them shifted.

She stilled, and something in Elias stirred. Something sharp. Something hungry.

"No," she admitted slowly, as if the truth was being pried from her one syllable at a time. "Never had the time."

The book shut with a snap.

Elias stood.

"Is that so?"

Liora's shoulders tensed, but she didn't turn around.

He crossed the room without thinking, each step deliberate, the weight of the storm pressing against the walls like it, too, was waiting for something to break.

"You read about love like you're desperate to understand it," he mused, watching the way her fingers flexed around her quill. "Like you're looking for something in those pages that you can't find anywhere else."

Her grip tightened. "And?"

His lips quirked, but there was nothing teasing in his voice when he spoke next. "And I think that's a damn shame."

At that, she finally turned to face him, brow furrowing. "A shame?"

He leaned against the desk, too close, too warm, too much.

"Aye." His voice dipped lower, like a tide pulling back before the crash. "A pretty thing like you, with that look in your eyes. The kind that wants, but never takes?" His fingers tapped against the book he still held. "That's the real tragedy."

Her breath hitched, and Elias saw it. That same spark he had seen in countless others before her, the flicker of curiosity, of longing, of something just beneath the surface waiting to ignite.

But Liora was different.

She wasn't a tavern girl looking for trouble. She wasn't a fleeting distraction in some foreign port. She was solid. Steady. The kind of person who deserved more than a rogue with an expiration date.

Elias gritted his teeth, forcing himself to step back, to give her space.

Because if he didn't—if he let himself sink any deeper—he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

And she deserved better than him.

Clearing his throat, he tossed the book onto the desk beside her journal, his tone carefully neutral. "Let me know if your old keeper ever left behind a guide on how to wait out a storm without losing your damned mind."

Liora blinked, as if trying to process the shift in the air, but to his relief, she let out a soft chuckle. "I'll let you know if I find anything."

Elias nodded, turning on his heel, but as he walked away, he felt it—the weight of her gaze on his back.

And he knew.

He wasn't the only one fighting a losing battle.

WC: 1366