Saturday morning in Pebblebay was the town's heartbeat. The weekly market spilled across the harbor square like a quilt made of mismatched stalls, children's chalk drawings, and the smell of cinnamon and saltwater. It wasn't glamorous, but it was beloved—like most things in Pebblebay.
Emery stood in front of her table at the Lighthouse Café's stall, arranging fresh scones into a basket lined with a gingham cloth. The breeze kept trying to steal the napkins, and someone two stalls down was burning onions, but the day was warm, and her heart was steadier than it had been in a long while.
"You sure you want me out here with you?" Cal asked, adjusting the handwritten price sign. "I come with… narrative."
She gave him a look over the top of a strawberry rhubarb pie. "You're the main character around here this week. I might as well monetize it."
He grinned. "How capitalist of you."
She shrugged. "Flour's expensive."
Cal had never seen her like this in the open air of the town—confident, teasing, someone people gravitated toward. He watched as she greeted neighbors, offered taste-test samples, and gently corrected the teenager who tried to pay her in buttons.
She didn't need him.
That thought hit him more sharply than expected.
"I forgot how good you are at this," he said quietly.
She glanced up. "Selling baked goods?"
"No," he said. "Making people feel like they matter."
Her expression softened, but she didn't answer. Not right away. Instead, she passed him a warm scone wrapped in parchment.
"Eat something," she said. "You get dramatic when you're underfed."
He chuckled and took a bite just as a familiar voice cut through the crowd.
"Well, if it isn't the prodigal photographer."
Cal turned and came face-to-face with Mrs. Armitage, the retired librarian and local master of guilt-based interrogation.
"You're taller," she said, squinting up at him. "But still skinnier than you should be. I suppose Emery hasn't fattened you up yet."
"I've been here three days," he said.
"No excuse," she sniffed. Then looked between the two of them. "So. Is this happening again?"
Cal blinked. "I… what do you mean?"
Mrs. Armitage crossed her arms. "You and Emery. Because the whole town's betting on it. I personally have five dollars and a jam jar riding on you not screwing it up this time."
He coughed, nearly choking on the scone.
Emery handed him a napkin, unbothered. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mrs. Armitage."
"It's not confidence, dear. It's investment."
She turned and marched off, leaving behind the faint scent of peppermint and judgment.
"Well," Cal muttered. "That wasn't terrifying at all."
Emery smirked. "Welcome home."
Later, when the crowd thinned and the scones were down to crumbs, they took a walk along the cliff path above the beach. It was quieter here, the air full of gull cries and sea breeze. Below them, waves lapped gently at the rocks.
"I don't know how to fit into this version of your life," Cal said, kicking a small stone down the path. "It's… full. You've built something. You're grounded. I'm just—"
"Drifting?" she offered.
"Kind of."
Emery didn't respond right away. She reached into her satchel and pulled out something wrapped in linen.
He frowned. "What's that?"
She unwrapped it to reveal a small, leather-bound book. His book. The journal he'd sent her from Greece.
"I used to read this when I missed you most," she said. "You'd draw little sketches next to the entries—of doorways and trees, coffee cups. But the ones I loved most were the ones where you stopped trying to sound impressive. Just honest, tired thoughts. Like…"
She flipped to a page and read: "I saw a man in a train station hug his daughter like he hadn't seen her in a decade. It made my throat hurt. I miss things I haven't even named."
He stared at the page, stunned. He'd forgotten he'd written that.
"I didn't build this life because I stopped waiting," Emery said softly. "I built it because I knew if you ever came back, I didn't want to be broken when you did. I wanted to be whole."
Cal's breath caught.
"I don't need you to fit into my life, Cal," she continued. "I need you to want to build something next to it. Maybe with your own tools. Your own space. But side by side."
He nodded, slowly. "I do."
They stood in the wind, the sea stretching wide below them, and for the first time in years, Cal didn't feel like he had to run to find meaning. Maybe it was already here—in soft voices, Saturday mornings, and someone who had learned to live without him but was still choosing not to.
When Emery reached for his hand, he took it without hesitation.
And neither of them let go.