The first letter appeared three months ago, tucked inside my mailbox like a secret waiting to be discovered. I remember standing there on my grandmother's porch, the salt air tangling through my hair as I unfolded the cream-colored paper. No signature. No return address. Just words that seemed to reach inside my chest and squeeze. *"I saw you at the cove last night, dancing with the waves like you were seventeen again. Some things never change. Some things shouldn't."* I should have been terrified. A normal person would have called the police, reported a stalker. But there was something in those words—a tenderness, a familiarity that made my skin hum with recognition I couldn't quite place. The letters kept coming. Every week, sometimes twice. Each one more intimate than the last. *"Do you still collect sea glass? I found a piece of blue today and thought of your eyes."* *"Your light was on at 2 AM again. I hope you're writing, not worrying."* *"The old lighthouse keeper's cottage looks good. You've made it home."* That last one had made me cry, though I couldn't explain why. Maybe because coming back to Crescent Bay after eight years in New York felt like admitting defeat. My publishing career had imploded spectacularly—my second novel rejected by everyone, my advance money gone, my Manhattan apartment a memory. Crawling back to my grandmother's cottage wasn't the triumphant return I'd imagined. But someone saw it differently. Someone saw me differently. I'd spent weeks trying to figure out who was writing them. The letters revealed an observer who knew my patterns, my hiding spots, my soul. The handwriting was masculine, confident. The paper expensive. The words... God, the words made me feel seen in a way I hadn't felt in years. Now, standing in Sophie Chen's childhood dining room, I'm about to discover the truth I've been craving. And I'm going to wish I'd never come home. "Maya!" Sophie throws her arms around me, and I catch the scent of her jasmine perfume—the same one she's worn since high school. "I'm so glad you could make it. I have the most incredible news." She's radiant. That's the only word for it. Her black hair is swept up in an elegant twist, and she's wearing a dress I know costs more than my monthly grocery budget. Sophie stayed in Crescent Bay, took over her family's real estate empire, and turned it into a coastal powerhouse. She's everything I'm not—successful, settled, certain. "Wouldn't miss it," I say, and I mean it. Sophie was the one person who stayed in touch when I left. Who called every week. Who never made me feel like a failure when everything fell apart. "Come meet him," she says, grabbing my hand. "He's been dying to meet you. I've told him everything about us—about our summers, our secrets, everything." My stomach twists as she pulls me toward the living room. That's when I see him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck. He's standing by the window, studying one of Sophie's mother's paintings with an artist's intense focus. Something about his posture, the angle of his jaw, tickles at my memory. "Maya, this is Ethan Cross," Sophie says, her voice trembling with joy. "My fiancé." He turns, and the world stops. Those eyes. Gray like storm clouds over the ocean. I know those eyes. "It's wonderful to finally meet you," Ethan says, extending his hand. His voice is smooth, controlled. "Sophie talks about you constantly." His hand is warm, strong. And there—right there on his index finger—is a smudge of blue ink. The same blue ink from the letters. ---