Page 193 of At First Catch

“He’s working all the time,” I admit. “Not just on the docks. He keeps taking calls outside. Checking his phone when he thinks I’m not looking. And every time I ask if something’s wrong, he tells me everything’s fine.”

Bailey looks up.

“What do you mean?”

“His apartment looks like an accountant exploded. Budgets. Estimates. Pages and pages of numbers. Every time I see him lately, he’s either staring at spreadsheets or taking another phone call.”

I sigh.

“I keep thinking if something was really wrong, he’d tell me.”

The problem is that every step forward seems to come paired with another instinctive retreat the second pressure rises again.

Everyone who loves Nolan can see it now. The marina stopped being business to him months ago.

Proof that he finally built a life worth staying for.

And underneath all of that? Proof that he finally found people worth staying for too.

“I don’t think he realizes shutting people out hurts them too,” I admit.

Bailey studies me carefully.

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think Nolan spent most of his life surviving.” Her face relaxes, softening her features. “And survival mode doesn’t leave a lot of room for a relationship.”

Outside the windows, clouds drift over Back Bay again. Not storm-dark this time. Just enough to cast shadows across the town. My mood mirrors the overcast.

If Nolan never learns how to stop surviving long enough to fully lean into love—eventually it’s going to break both of us.

By sunset, the marina glows gold beneath repaired dock lights and fading storm clouds. And Nolan still hasn’t stopped moving once.

I stand near the western railing, holding two take-out containers while workers gradually clear out for the night around us.

The smell of salt water and storm-soaked wood still hangs faintly in the air while boats rock gently against reinforced slips below.

Everything looks calmer tonight, but Nolan doesn’t.

He stands near the fuel dock talking to Walter with exhaustion written into every line of his body.

Something inside me twists painfully because I realize he genuinely has no idea how visible his unraveling has become lately.

Walter notices me first. The man possesses startling emotional awareness for someone who communicates primarily through sarcasm and beer.

He says something low to Nolan before walking off toward the office.

Nolan turns, and his gaze relaxes. Even exhausted half to death and emotionally fraying around the edges.

“Hads,” he says when I reach him.

“You forgot dinner again.”

The guilt is written all over his face.

“I was gonna come upstairs.”