The next time Michael came, he didn't announce it.

  Willow only realised he was there when she felt the shift in the room—the subtle quieting that happened when he crossed the threshold of Field of Waves. It was late afternoon, that in-between hour when lunch had ended and dinner hadn't yet begun, when the place felt like it was holding its breath.

  She looked up from the prep table.

  He stood just inside the door, coat still on, eyes scanning the space as if checking whether it had changed in his absence.

  It hadn't.

  Same worn wood. Same low light. Same smell of fire and bread and something sweet underneath.

  "You're early," she said.

  He nodded. "Missed my train."

  She didn't ask if that was true.

  "Sit," she said again, gesturing to the counter.

  This time, he didn't hesitate.

  He took off his coat, folded it neatly, placed it on the stool beside him. The movement was careful—too careful. Like someone used to being watched.

  Willow noticed everything and pretended not to.

  She poured him tea without asking. He wrapped his hands around the mug like it was an anchor.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then he said quietly, "I sleep better here."

  The words landed heavier than he seemed to realise.

  She kept her voice even. "You're welcome to nap upstairs if you want. The spare room's made."

  He shook his head. "Not sleep. Just… rest."

  She understood the distinction.

  Rest was permission. Sleep was surrender.

  "Stay as long as you need," she said.

  Again.

  He watched her then—really watched her. Not her hands, not her mouth, but her face. Like he was trying to learn something by heart.

  "Why do you do that?" he asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Make it easy."

  She smiled faintly. "Because it isn't easy everywhere."

  He looked down at his tea. Steam curled up between them, blurring the air.

  "Samantha hates this place," he said suddenly.

  Willow's fingers stilled for half a second.

  "Hates?" she echoed.

  "She says it makes me soft." He huffed a quiet laugh. "Says I come back different. Quieter. Less… useful."

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  Willow felt something cold slide through her chest.

  "What do you say?" she asked.

  "I don't." He shrugged. "I just come back less often."

  There it was.

  The erosion. Slow. Deliberate.

  She leaned against the counter, not crossing her arms, keeping her body open.

  "You're not soft," she said. "You're tired."

  He closed his eyes at that. Just for a second.

  "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this," he admitted. "London. The restaurants. The expectations." He opened his eyes again. "Her."

  Willow didn't answer right away.

  Outside, the light shifted. Clouds thickened. The sea darkened.

  "You don't have to decide anything today," she said at last. "You can just… be here."

  He nodded, like that was all he could manage.

  They stayed like that for a while. Not talking. Not touching. Just existing in the same quiet.

  Later, when she went to the kitchen to start the evening prep, she felt his presence follow—not physically, but in the way her body remained aware of him. As if some part of her was keeping watch.

  He didn't help. Didn't ask to. He just sat, letting the warmth and the rhythm of the place do their work.

  When he finally stood to leave, dusk had settled fully.

  "I'll come back," he said.

  Not a promise.

  But not nothing.

  She walked him to the door.

  As he stepped outside, he paused, then turned back.

  "This place," he said, gesturing behind her. "It feels like… before."

  "Before what?"

  "Before everything got complicated."

  She met his gaze. "Sometimes before is just waiting for you."

  He didn't reply.

  He just nodded once, like someone acknowledging a truth they weren't ready to claim.

  Willow's Diary

  He rests here

  like an animal that's been running

  too long without shelter.

  I will not cage him.

  I will not chase him.

  I will be the place

  he learns

  that stopping

  doesn't mean failing.

  Poem — Hearth

  You sit by my fire

  as if you don't belong to warmth,

  as if rest must be earned.

  Stay,

  not because you're broken,

  but because even the strongest

  need somewhere

  they are not hunted.