Eli hadn't expected to feel like this.
Not after the kiss, not after the warmth of Mason's body beside his own, not after everything seemed—for once—quiet.
But grief had a habit of curling back in, even when you weren't looking.
It was subtle at first. A scent in the air—salt, and something older. The memory of his father's cologne. The way the floorboards creaked at the top of the stairs. That particular, bone-deep stillness of the house when the ocean calmed and all that remained was silence.
Eli stood in the hallway outside his father's old bedroom, staring at the closed door.
He hadn't opened it since the funeral. Jasper hadn't either. They'd both danced around it like it was radioactive.
It probably was.
His hand hovered over the knob, and for a second, his heart raced. What was he afraid of? Dust? Forgotten socks? A memory so heavy it might flatten him?
He opened the door.
The room was preserved like a shrine. Bed neatly made. Books stacked haphazardly on the bedside table. A jacket slung over the chair in the corner. His father had always been messy in neat ways—clutter that made sense only to him.
Eli stepped inside.
The air smelled like old fabric, cedar, and something faintly medicinal. On the desk was a small wooden box.
He opened it.
Inside: a collection of letters. Faded envelopes. A photograph of a woman he didn't recognize, smiling beside a man who looked like his father, but younger. Softer.
Jasper's mother?
He picked up one of the letters and unfolded it.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness. Just to be remembered. He deserves to know who he came from. Even if I can't be the one to tell him."
The signature wasn't his father's. It was the woman. Lena.
Eli sat on the edge of the bed, the letter in his lap. His throat felt tight, like something unspoken had finally found its voice and didn't know how to stop screaming.
He wasn't the only one who'd been abandoned. And their father hadn't been the only one holding guilt.
---
That night, he found Jasper sitting on the back steps, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling up like secrets into the night.
"You smoke now?" Eli asked, folding his arms.
Jasper didn't look at him. "Sometimes. When I remember too much."
Eli sat beside him, offering the photograph.
Jasper took it slowly.
"She wrote him," Eli said. "More than once. I found the letters."
Jasper stared at the picture. "She died when I was nine. Cancer. Fast and mean."
"I'm sorry."
Jasper shook his head. "I used to think he stayed away because he didn't want me. Turns out he just didn't know how to love either of us."
They sat in silence.
Finally, Jasper said, "You ever think maybe we inherited his silence?"
Eli blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… I've been here, what, a few weeks? And we've barely scratched the surface of each other. You kiss that guy like your heart's on fire, and then you fold up into yourself like you're afraid it'll burn."
Eli flinched.
"I'm not judging," Jasper said, softer now. "I do the same thing. Just… if we're gonna be brothers, we should probably figure out how to stop hiding."
Eli didn't answer right away.
Then, quietly, "I don't know how to be open with someone without breaking."
"Maybe breaking's the first step."
---
The next morning, Eli walked into the café Mason worked at, still fogged from sleep and too much emotional static.
Mason looked up from behind the counter, grinned. "You look like you've been up all night writing sonnets or crying in closets."
"Bit of both."
"Caffeine?"
"God, yes."
Mason poured a cup and passed it over. "Rough night?"
Eli nodded, wrapping his hands around the warmth. "Jasper and I talked. Really talked."
Mason leaned forward on the counter, the corner of his mouth twitching into something close to pride. "And?"
"And I realized I've spent most of my life deciding how people should love me before I even gave them a chance."
Mason arched a brow. "That a confession?"
"More like a warning."
"I'll take it either way."
They stood in the comfortable buzz of the café, voices rising and falling around them, the espresso machine hissing like punctuation.
"I want this to work," Eli said finally. "But I need you to know—there are parts of me still... raw. And I don't always know how to say the right thing."
Mason walked around the counter and pulled him in by the wrist.
"You don't have to be perfect," he said, voice low. "Just honest."
Eli leaned into the touch. "I'm trying."
Mason kissed him, right there between the croissants and the register.
Neither of them cared who saw.
---
That weekend, Talia's article ran.
"The Sons of Silence: Salt Bay's Quiet Inheritance" stretched across the top fold of the paper.
There was a photo of Eli and Jasper, seated on the back steps of the house, not smiling—but not cold either. Beside them, a grainy black-and-white of their father in his younger days.
The town responded like wildfire.
Some people whispered at the market. Others offered quiet nods of understanding. And a few—like Mrs. Canter from the bookstore—left pies and notes that said simply, "I see you."
Eli hadn't expected any of it. Least of all, the sense of release.
Later that day, Mason found him sitting in his car, staring at a copy of the paper.
"You okay?" he asked, slipping into the passenger seat.
"I think so," Eli said. "I think I finally told the truth about something that matters."
Mason squeezed his hand. "You mattered even before you told it."
Eli looked over at him. "You're kind of incredible, you know that?"
Mason smirked. "Took you long enough."
---
That night, a storm rolled in off the coast.
The rain slammed the windows, and the power flickered, then went out entirely.
Eli and Jasper lit candles. Sat in the kitchen with whiskey and questions.
"You ever think about what comes next?" Jasper asked, staring into the flame.
"Every day."
"I'm thinking of staying. Not forever. Just… longer."
Eli nodded. "I'd like that."
Jasper met his gaze. "I want to try writing music again. Maybe even play in town. Think anyone would show up?"
Eli smiled. "I would."
Jasper nodded. "Then that's enough to start."
---
Somewhere between the rain and the quiet, Eli realized this was what healing looked like: not a clean slate, not a perfect ending.
But showing up.
Staying.
Loving even when it hurt.
And letting the past be what it was—while choosing something new.
---