They sat on the blankets, their backs against a dusty wooden chest, facing the small iron stove. The heat was a living thing now, a welcome presence that slowly seeped through their damp clothes, chasing away the deep-seated chill. Outside, the rain was a constant, heavy roar on the tin roof, but inside, the crackle of the fire was the dominant sound. Emma pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The initial adrenaline had faded, replaced by a quiet awareness of their isolation.

Conor rummaged in the small backpack he’d dropped by the door. After a moment, he pulled out a single, slightly crushed granola bar and a small Ziploc bag containing a handful of trail mix. He held them up with a wry grin. “Dinner is served.”

Emma managed a small laugh. “A feast.”

He sat beside her on the blankets, the wool scratchy against her bare arms. Their shoulders were close, not quite touching. He carefully broke the granola bar in two, the snap loud in the quiet room, and handed her the larger half. Then he opened the bag of trail mix and held it out between them.

“Don’t eat all the M&Ms,” she warned, her voice soft.

“Never,” he promised, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the small portions of food feeling precious. Emma savored the sweetness of the chocolate and dried cranberries, a stark contrast to the musty air. When they were finished, Conor carefully folded the empty wrappers and tucked them back into his pack. The simple, domestic act felt strangely intimate.

Emma leaned her head back against the chest, looking up at the dark rafters where the canoe hung. “I can’t believe you never told me about this place.”

Conor followed her gaze, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. He picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t think about it much anymore.” He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes scanning the cluttered corners of the room, now softened and obscured by the shadows cast by the fire. “My grandpa and I practically lived here in the summers. He taught me how to bait a hook right over there,” he said, nodding toward a workbench littered with old lures and spools of line. “Taught me how to clean a fish, too. My grandmother refused to let us do it in her kitchen.”

Emma watched his face, the hard lines of his jaw softening in the flickering light. He wasn't looking at her, but at some point in the past she couldn't see.

“He’d wake me up before dawn,” Conor continued, his voice lower now, rougher. “We’d take the canoe out when the lake was like glass. He never said much. We’d just… sit. And fish. Afterward, he’d let me steer the motorboat back, even when I was way too young.” A real, wistful smile touched his lips. “I felt like the king of the world.”

He finally turned to look at her, and she saw a vulnerability in his eyes she had never seen before. Conor was always the steady one, the one with the quick joke and the confident plan. This man, talking about his grandfather with a quiet reverence, felt like a stranger and yet, somehow, more himself than ever.

“It sounds…” she started, but couldn’t find the right word. “It sounds perfect.”

He gave a small, sad nod. “It was.” He looked away again, back at the fire. “After he passed, it just… wasn’t the same. Coming here felt wrong, somehow. Like trespassing.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the crackle of the fire and the drumming rain. Emma didn't know what to say. She felt like she was seeing a piece of him that he kept hidden from the world, a tender spot that still ached. She wanted to reach out, to put a hand on his arm, but the gesture felt too big for the fragile space between them.

Instead, she shifted slightly, her back pressing more firmly against the wooden chest they were leaning on. A dull thud from inside the chest answered the movement. Curious, she turned, running her hand along the dusty lid. "What's in here?"

Conor blinked, pulled from his reverie. "I don't know. Old fishing gear, probably. Maybe more blankets."

She lifted the heavy lid, which creaked in protest. The scent of cedar and old paper billowed out. On top of a neatly folded stack of wool sweaters lay a small, unassuming cardboard box tied with a faded ribbon. Emma lifted it out, her fingers dusty, and placed it on the blanket between them.

"What is it?" Conor asked, leaning closer. The movement brought his shoulder flush against hers. The warmth from his body was immediate, a solid, comforting presence.

Emma carefully untied the ribbon, the brittle string crumbling slightly under her touch. She lifted the lid. The box was filled with photographs, their curled edges and sepia tones speaking of another time. She picked up the one on top. It was a picture of a much younger Conor, maybe seven or eight years old, grinning proudly as he held up a small, silvery fish. A man with kind, crinkled eyes and a thick white mustache had an arm slung around his shoulders.

"Is that him?" she asked softly, handing the photo to Conor.

His fingers brushed against hers as he took it, a spark of contact that seemed to linger in the cool air. He stared at the image, a faint smile on his face. "Yeah. That's him. My grandpa." He looked from the photo to her. "We must be sitting right where that picture was taken."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm, passing the small, stiff squares of memory back and forth. There were pictures of a woman with a warm smile who must have been his grandmother, posing with a pie on a porch that was no longer there. There was Conor as a teenager, looking lanky and awkward in swim trunks, pretending to be scared of a tiny crab. With each photo, Emma felt the boathouse transform. It was no longer just a dusty, forgotten shelter, but a place filled with the ghosts of laughter and summer days.

To see them better in the dim, flickering light, they had to lean in close, their heads nearly touching. Emma was acutely aware of everything about him: the faint, clean scent of his soap underneath the dampness of his clothes, the way the firelight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the soft sound of his breathing. When he passed her a photo of his grandparents dancing, their arms wrapped around each other, his knuckles grazed the back of her hand. The touch was fleeting, accidental, but it sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold. She didn't pull away.

“They looked happy,” Emma murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She traced the edge of the photograph with her thumb. “Your grandparents.”

Conor nodded, placing the photo carefully back in the box. “They were. Most of the time. Fought like cats and dogs some days, but they always figured it out.” He looked at her, his expression serious in the firelight. “Not everyone gets that.”

The observation hung in the air between them, pointed and personal. The playful mood that had accompanied the first few photos evaporated, replaced by something heavier, more honest. The rain on the roof seemed to grow louder, isolating them further.

“No,” Emma said, her gaze dropping to her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “They don’t.” She thought of Mark, of their last few months together. The silence had been the worst part—the quiet dinners, the conversations that skimmed the surface, the feeling of being roommates instead of partners. “It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Trying to make it work when you know it’s already broken.”

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the words slipped out, raw and unguarded in the strange intimacy of the boathouse. She felt Conor’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t know it was that bad with Mark,” he said softly. It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact.

Emma finally looked up at him. The sympathy in his eyes made her throat tighten. “I didn’t want it to be,” she confessed. “I kept thinking if I just tried a little harder, was a little more of what he wanted, it would go back to how it was. But it never does.” She let out a humorless laugh. “The worst part is, I think I was more lonely in the last six months with him than I’ve been since he left.”

Conor didn’t offer platitudes or easy reassurances. He just listened, his presence a solid anchor in the storm of her remembered hurt. He shifted on the blanket, turning his body more fully toward hers. “He didn’t deserve you, Em. Not if he couldn’t see what was right in front of him.”

His sincerity was a balm. She gave him a small, watery smile. “And what about you? You never talk about Sarah anymore.”

He flinched, a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Not much to talk about,” he said, his voice clipped. But then he sighed, the resistance leaving his body as he looked into the fire. “That’s not true.” He picked up a small, smooth stone from the hearth, turning it over and over in his palm. “I thought she was it. The one. I had it all planned out in my head.” He paused. “I think… I think I loved the idea of her more than I loved the real person. And when it ended, I wasn’t just losing her. I was losing this whole future I’d built for us.” He looked at Emma, his expression unguarded. “It made me feel like a fool.”

The confession settled between them, a shared weight. She saw it then—the careful wall he kept around himself, the one he papered over with jokes and easy confidence. It wasn’t that he was shallow; he was protecting a place that had been deeply wounded. Without thinking, she reached out and rested her hand on his arm, her fingers curling gently over his bicep. The muscle was hard and warm beneath her touch. He didn’t pull away. He simply stopped moving, his gaze locked with hers as the fire crackled and the rain fell, washing the world away outside their small, warm shelter.