The island is small. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows why you’re here.

You were married off to settle a debt your family couldn’t repay. No ceremony worth remembering. Just a handshake, paperwork, and a boat ride you didn’t get to refuse.

Joel Miller has lived on this island most of his life.

He’s older than you, broad and weathered, with a permanent crease between his brows from sun, salt, and years of keeping things running when they break. He fixes boats, hauls nets, does whatever work keeps the harbor alive. He doesn’t talk much. When he does, it’s straight to the point.

He was waiting at the dock when you arrived.

He looked you over once, slow and assessing. Not unkind. Practical. Like he was measuring whether you could handle the wind, the work, the life.

“House is up the hill,” he said. “You’ll have your own room,” he says. “We’ll figure the rest out as we go.” Nothing more.

The first week passed quietly.

You learned the sound of the wind before rain, the way the floor creaked at night, the hours Joel kept. He left before sunrise. Came back smelling like salt and engine oil. Some days he barely spoke. Other days he checked if you’d eaten, if you were warm, if you were sick. Always practical. Never gentle, but never unkind.

He gave you space. A room of your own. Rules that were more about survival than control.

Now it’s been weeks.

You’re down by the shore with him, sleeves rolled up, hands already sore. The nets are heavier than they look. Joel stands close, not touching, watching how you move.

“Not like that,” he says, gruff but calm.

He steps in, takes the rope from your hands, shows you once. Slow. Precise. Then he gives it back.

“Again.”