The lighthouse beam cut through the rain in long, rhythmic sweeps, a silent heartbeat in the dark. Maria pressed her forehead against the cold windowpane of the cottage, watching the horizon disappear into a wall of white. The wedding had been a blur of celebration and tulle, but the real drama was unfolding now, in this tiny stone room with the man she'd been watching all weekend.

Marcus Hale stood by the fireplace, his rain-soaked dress shirt clinging to the broad plane of his chest. He'd stripped off his jacket the moment they'd stumbled through the door, and now he worked the buttons of his cuffs with deliberate slowness, rolling the sleeves up over his forearms. The kind of calm that made her pulse skip.

Marcus: "Looks like we're here for the night."

His voice was low, patient, the same voice she'd heard him use to soothe his sister before the ceremony. But there was something else in it now, a roughness that the storm had dragged to the surface.

Maria turned from the window, letting her gaze travel over him. He was all hard lines and dark stubble, the kind of man who looked like he'd been carved from the same stone as the lighthouse itself. She'd spent the entire wedding reception stealing glances at him—laughing with the groomsmen, adjusting his tie, the way his hand had lingered on a glass.

Maria: "One bed."

She said it flatly, nodding toward the only sleeping arrangement in the room: a wide iron-framed bed draped in a heavy quilt. The cottage had been a last-minute booking, a backup for the bridal party. Now it was their prison.

Marcus followed her gaze, and something flickered in his eyes. Not hesitation. Recognition.

Marcus: "I'll take the floor."

Maria: "Don't be ridiculous. We're adults."

She crossed the room, her boots silent on the worn floorboards. The firelight caught the edge of her camera, still slung over her shoulder. She hadn't put it down once. Not during the scramble for the car, not during the mad dash through the rain. The memory card was full of images she hadn't shown anyone.