The sound of waves lapping against the weathered dock was the only thing that broke the morning silence. Adrian Whitaker stood barefoot at the edge of the old wooden slats, a mug of black coffee cradled in one hand, the other resting loosely in the pocket of his jeans. The lake, glass-still at this hour, reflected the sky in a way that made it hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Behind him, the modest but finely crafted timber-frame house he'd designed himself stood in quiet harmony with the pines. Nothing extravagant - just intentional, like everything he touched.
He exhaled slowly, watching the steam curl from the rim of the mug. The morning ritual was always the same: swim, coffee, stillness. No calls before nine, no news, no small talk. Just the sound of water, the ache in his shoulders from yesterday's laps, and the quiet hum of memory. It had been ten years, but grief didn't count time like other things. It settled in, made itself a tenant. You didn't fight it. You just learned to live without tripping over it.
Behind him, the soft creak of a floorboard - the one in the kitchen he'd always meant to fix - signalled Leah's arrival. She never slept in when she visited, not anymore. Another thing she'd picked up from him, he supposed. That and the habit of watching people too closely, as though their silences said more than their words.
"Coffee?" she called, knowing full well he was already on his first.
He turned slightly, a flicker of that rare half-smile ghosting across his lips. "Already on it," he said, voice low and rough with sleep.
She joined him a minute later, her mug clinking gently against his as they stood side by side. No need to talk. With Leah, there rarely was.
After a moment, she cleared her throat. "Michelle's driving up later today. I told her she could stay in the guest room, if that's okay."
Adrian gave a noncommittal nod, eyes still on the horizon. He remembered Michelle, vaguely, from Leah's college years. Assistant manager at a hotel, if memory served. Always cheerful, always in motion. He'd seen her once, in passing, unloading a car full of produce and cast iron pans during some impromptu girls' weekend years ago. She'd tripped over her own flip-flop, laughed too loud, and apologized to the tree she'd nearly knocked into.
"She's been working a lot," Leah added. "Barely takes time off. Thought this might be good for her. Just… quiet. Space to breathe."
Adrian gave a thoughtful hum. That much, he understood. People like Michelle - warm, open-hearted - sometimes didn't know how to leave room for themselves.
"You okay with it?" Leah asked, though her tone was more teasing than uncertain.
"Of course," he said simply. "Just hope she likes lake air and silence."
Leah laughed. "She likes everything. Except crowds. And mushrooms. And she'll probably talk your ear off when she's nervous, so… fair warning."
Adrian gave a dry chuckle and took another sip of his coffee. He hadn't expected company, not beyond Leah. But if her friend needed the quiet, the lake had plenty to spare.
And as far as he was concerned, one more guest wouldn't change much. Not yet, anyway.
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