Episode 3: The Sketch

A week later, the sun broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow over Havenport’s bluff. Lila perched on a weathered rock, her sketchbook balanced on her knees, charcoal flying across the page. Below, Jude worked at the docks, unloading crates with a steady rhythm, his sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. She captured the strength in his hands, the quiet intensity of his frown, the way the light caught the stubble on his jaw. It was practice, she told herself, a study of form and shadow. She didn’t hear his footsteps until his shadow fell over her page.

“Caught me in the act, huh?” he said, peering at the sketch with a raised brow.

Lila snapped the book shut, her face heating.“It’s just practice,” she stammered, clutching it to her chest.

“Pretty good practice. Am I that interesting?” His tone was teasing, but his gray eyes held a flicker of curiosity.

“You’re… convenient,” she said, forcing a smirk to cover her embarrassment.

He chuckled, lowering himself beside her, close enough that she caught the scent of sea and cedar on him. The proximity sent a shiver through her, though she blamed the breeze. They sat in companionable silence, the waves crashing below, until he broke it. “You’ve got talent. Ever sell your work?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, relaxing slightly. “Mostly it’s for me.” She didn’t mention the gallery shows she’d abandoned, the dreams Mark had dismissed. When he asked, “What’s your story?” her guard snapped back up. The pain of her past—Mark’s lies, the ring she’d thrown away—was too raw to share. “Not much to tell,” she lied, standing abruptly.

Jude watched her retreat, her curls bouncing as she hurried toward the cottage. He’d pushed too far, he knew, but her evasiveness only deepened his intrigue. Back at the docks, he resumed his work, the sketch of him etched in his mind. He wasn’t one to dwell on people, not since his ex left, taking his trust with her. Yet Lila’s presence stirred something—curiosity, perhaps, or a longing he’d buried with his nets.

Inside, Lila paced the cottage, her sketchbook taunting her from the table. She flipped it open, staring at the half-finished drawing of Jude. His face, rough yet kind, seemed to judge her silence. She added a few strokes—the curve of his shoulder, the line of his jaw—then slammed it shut. This wasn’t her plan. She’d come to heal, not to entangle herself with a fisherman who saw too much. The kettle whistled, and she made tea, the ritual grounding her. But as she sipped, her eyes drifted to the window, where Jude’s boat bobbed in the distance. The sea whispered possibilities she wasn’t ready to face.

That night, she dreamed of waves and gray eyes, waking with charcoal smudges on her fingers. The cottage felt smaller, the solitude heavier. She sketched again, the lines bolder, capturing the storm she felt inside. Havenport was changing her, and Jude—whether she liked it or not—was part of that shift.

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