Page 124 of Stolen Harmony
“The Ferris wheel,” Elias said suddenly, nodding toward the ancient contraption that had been slowly turning all day, carrying couples and families up into the sky for views of Harbor's End that probably looked better from a distance.
“That thing looks like it was built a couple of decades ago.”
“Probably was. But look at that sunset.”
He was right. The sky was on fire, all oranges and purples and golds that turned the ocean into molten metal. From up there, Harbor's End would look like a painting, all the rough edges softened by distance and light.
“Fine,” I said. “But if we die in a carnival ride malfunction, I'm blaming you.”
“Fair enough.”
The operator was a weathered man who looked like he'd been running this particular ride since the Coolidge administration himself. He helped us into the swaying car with the practiced movements of someone who'd done this thousands oftimes, securing the safety bar with a clank that sounded more hopeful than certain.
As we rose into the air, Harbor's End spread out below us like a map of possibilities. The festival looked smaller from here, less chaotic, just pools of light and movement scattered along the pier. The ocean stretched to the horizon, endless and dark, while behind us the town climbed the hills in neat rows of houses with lit windows.
“It's beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
“It is,” Elias agreed, but when I glanced over, he wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at me.
The car swayed gently in the ocean breeze, and I could feel something shifting between us again, the same electric awareness that had sparked when I'd touched his face. We were alone up here, suspended between earth and sky, with nothing but honesty and the gathering darkness.
“We should head back,” Elias said eventually, though he made no move to get up from the bench where we'd been watching the sunset.
“Should we?”
“Probably.”
But neither of us moved, and the silence that settled between us felt different from the easy quiet we'd shared all day. Charged, electric, full of possibility and the weight of things that couldn't be said in public.
The walk back to my apartment was slower than it needed to be, both of us finding reasons to pause, to point out details we'd missed on the way to the pier, to extend a day that had felt too perfect to end. When we reached the narrow staircase that led to my door, I felt something shift, like we were crossing athreshold into territory that would require decisions neither of us was ready to make.
“Thank you,” I said when we reached my door. “For today. For breakfast. For not treating me like I'm made of glass.”
“Thank you for coming with me. For making it feel less like an obligation to your mother’s memory and more like... this.”
“Like what?”
He was standing close enough that I could smell his cologne, could see the flecks of darker blue in his gray eyes, could count the silver threads in his hair that caught the light from the hallway's single bulb.
“Like something worth doing,” he said quietly.
I felt my pulse quicken, felt the familiar tug of want that had been building for weeks, felt the dangerous urge to close the distance between us and see what would happen if I was brave enough to reach for what I wanted.
Instead, I unlocked my door and stepped inside, leaving it open behind me in invitation. “Coffee?” I asked, though we'd both had enough caffeine to keep us awake until next week.
“Yeah,” he said, following me into the apartment. “Coffee sounds good.”
But once we were inside, once the door was closed and we were alone in the small space that had become my refuge, the atmosphere changed again. The easy companionship of the day gave way to something more intense, more fragile, like we were both aware that we were standing on the edge of something that couldn't be undone.
I moved toward the kitchenette, more for something to do with my hands than out of any real desire for coffee, but Elias caught my wrist as I passed him.
“Rowan,” he said, my name rough in his voice.
I turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. There was want there, raw and undisguised, butalso fear, confusion, the same mixture of desire and terror that had been eating at me for weeks.
“I know,” I said, though I wasn't sure what I was agreeing to.
“This is complicated.”
