Chapter 10: Madeline

The house is quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

The kind of quiet that makes your ears work too hard. That makes every creak of the floor and whirr of the fridge sound suspiciously like someone sneaking up on you when really, it’s just… silence.

Everyone’s gone. Charlie left about twenty minutes ago, cheeks a little pink as she pulled her boots on and told me her boss wanted to see her at the other house.

“He’s not really my boss-boss,” she added with a little shrug and a very obvious wink. “But he’s… let’s just say, it’s my favourite part of the job.”

I grinned at her. “You go, girl.”

She grinned back. “I intend to.”

And then she was gone—jacket zipped to her chin, keys in hand, door swinging closed behind her with that soft click that always makes this house feel older than it is.

Now it’s just me and the dishes.

I pick up my plate from the small kitchen table and walk it to the sink, dragging my socked feet across the cool wood floors. The tile under the sink is colder, somehow, like it’s been holding onto the memory of the sea breeze all night.

I slept like crap. Not even bad dreams—just… not enough peace.

First, there was the noise. The wind through the trees, the occasional crash of waves from farther out than I thought sound could travel. The whistle of air squeezing between the windowsill and the pane, like the house was gently wheezing in its sleep. The distant sound of a wolf—or maybe a coyote?—somewhere deep in the woods.

Then there was the cold. I had all the blankets on me. Every last one. Charlie even lent me a space heater she pulled from the closet down the hall, a little boxy thing with a faint orange glow and a low hum. It helped… a little. But the air up here at night is damp and sneaky. It seeps into your bones like guilt. Or grief.

And if all that wasn’t enough to keep me wide awake at 2:17 a.m., there was the fact that Finn and Liam—who share the room right next to mine with zero soundproofing—spent a good hour talking about whether they could win in a fist fight against a goose, and I wish I were kidding.

It was mostly Liam yelling “THEY’RE MEANER THAN YOU THINK” and Finn just laughing like someone who has no fear of geese or death.

But even all that combined—the noise, the cold, the boys being feral next door—wasn’t the real reason I couldn’t sleep.

It was him.

Traffic light guy.

He’s carved into the inside of my brain like a sculpture someone started with a chisel and just… never finished. Which somehow makes it worse. More distracting. The mystery of it.

Who is he?

A local? A tourist? Someone with family here? Someone I’ll never see again, which would honestly be a crime against the entire female population of the eastern seaboard?

I scrub my dish slowly, letting the warm water numb my fingers.

He wasn’t just hot—he was unreal. Like a poster in someone’s college dorm room, except alive, and looking at me like he was trying to read an unfamiliar map.

That smile. That voice. There’s no one here. I can still hear it—low, patient, amused in a way that wasn’t mean, just observant. He noticed me in a way that felt rare. Focused.

And okay, yes, I said the dumbest possible thing a person could say when asked why they weren’t crossing the street. “It’s red.” Wow. Groundbreaking stuff, Madeline. But the way he looked at me afterward—like I’d said something fascinating instead of idiotic—that stuck.

The way he leaned slightly on his elbow. The way his hand brushed the side of his face. The way his window rolled up and his car rolled forward, and he vanished into fog like a ghost someone would write songs about.

Ugh.

I dry the dish and set it back in the cupboard. Then I rest my hands on the edge of the counter and stare out the small window above the sink.

There’s nothing out there now but gray light and a few gulls sitting like ghosts on the telephone wires.

Maybe I won’t see him again.

Maybe he was just passing through, and I’ll have to carry the embarrassment of that exchange with me into the grave.

Or—

Maybe he does live here. Maybe he works somewhere. Maybe we’ll cross paths again in town, and I’ll get to redeem myself by saying something only mildly stupid next time.

But then again…

Guys like that? They don’t usually go for girls like me.

Not because I’m not pretty—I know I’m not hideous. It’s just… I don’t exactly scream look at me. I’ve always felt like I was in the waiting room of my own life, watching other people get called in first. Girls like Charlie? They walk into a room and everyone turns their heads like she’s the main event. Girls like Sloane? They radiate authority, competence, power.

And I’m just… here.

Trying to warm up. Trying to sleep through the night. Trying not to think about why I really came here in the first place.

Trying not to remember how fast I ran.

I take a breath.

Shake my head like I can actually shake all that off.

I glance down at the towel in my hand, realize I’ve been clenching it like it owes me money.

No more spiraling today. I have a full day off before anything official starts tomorrow. I should explore. I should unpack the last of my stuff. I should try not to think about him.

Which means, obviously, I’m going to keep thinking about him for at least another twelve hours.

That’s fine.

It’s not like I know his name.

Or where he works.

Or if he has a girlfriend.

Or—god help me—a wife.

I sigh and walk back toward my room, muttering to myself like a person teetering on the edge of being unwell.

“Get it together, Quinn.”

Maybe a walk later will help.

Or maybe I’ll just keep waiting for green lights and hoping some stranger in a car will look at me like I’m something worth slowing down for.