Chapter 4: Restless Nights, Quiet Plans
Day 3, Evening
Elias Whitmore drove home as Crescent Bay's sky turned deep blue, the first stars peeking out. Orion, his golden retriever, greeted him at the door, tail wagging like a flag. Elias scratched the dog's ears, but his mind was elsewhere—on the woman from the café. Her chestnut hair, soft and wavy, kept flashing in his head. Her voice, calm even after he'd spilled coffee on her. The way she'd brushed it off like it was nothing.
He tossed his keys on the counter and grabbed a beer from the fridge. His house, all glass and wood, felt too big tonight, the ocean's hum loud through the open deck doors. He sank onto the couch, Orion curling up beside him, but his thoughts wouldn't settle. That moment in the café played on repeat—his clumsy mistake, her closed eyes, her wheelchair. She'd been beautiful, sure, but it was more than that. She'd seemed… steady. Like she didn't need anyone's help, not even his.
Elias sighed, rubbing his face. Why was he stuck on this? He didn't know her name, didn't know anything. Just a stranger, gone as quickly as she'd appeared. He finished the beer and headed to bed, hoping sleep would clear his head. Orion followed, flopping at the foot of the mattress.
But sleep didn't come. Elias lay there, staring at the ceiling, the woman's face creeping back. Her freckles, the way she'd said, "It's fine." He rolled over, then back again, the sheets tangling.
"What a headache," he muttered, glancing at the clock—1 a.m.
"What am I gonna do tomorrow if I don't sleep?"
He got up, restless, and stepped onto the balcony. The night was clear, stars sharp above Crescent Bay's cliffs. His telescope, a small one he kept at home, sat in the corner. Maybe the stars would help. He adjusted the lens, aiming for Orion's Belt, but his focus slipped. Every time he found a star, her face came back—those closed eyes, that quiet strength.
He groaned, stepping away.
"Come on, Eli. Get it together."
Back in bed, he tried counting stars in his mind, a trick from childhood. It didn't work. Dawn was close when he finally dozed off, her chestnut hair the last thing he saw.
---
Lila Carver rolled into her apartment, the boardwalk's evening buzz still in her ears. Mara had dropped her off, still giggling about the café guy.
"Handsome," she'd called him, teasing Lila the whole way home.
Lila had smiled, but it hadn't reached her heart. She wheeled to the laundry nook, pulling off her coffee-stained T-shirt and tossing it into the washing machine. The faint smell of espresso lingered, reminding her of the crash—the man's voice, quick with apology, Mara's playful jab.
She paused, her hands on the machine's buttons. He'd sounded nice, maybe even genuine. Not that it mattered. Guys like that—charming, probably good-looking—didn't see her. Not anymore.
Three years ago, before the accident took her sight and legs, she'd been different. Men noticed her laugh, her green eyes, the way she moved. Now, at twenty-seven, she was a podcaster, her world built on sound and stories, not glances or dances.
Love wasn't for her, not when pity always came first.
Lila started the wash, the machine's hum familiar. Her dad had hired a servant, Emma, to handle chores—cleaning, cooking, shopping. Emma came in the mornings, leaving Lila's evenings free. It was kind, but sometimes it made Lila feel smaller, like she couldn't manage alone. She did, though. Always had.
In her bedroom, she changed into a soft tee, her fingers finding the braille tag. The apartment was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the distant ocean. She played her latest podcast episode, a rough cut about Icarus, letting her own voice fill the space.
The man from the café slipped into her thoughts once more—his offer to buy her a shirt, Mara's laugh.
Lila shook her head, shutting it out. He was nobody. Just a moment.
She climbed into bed, the quilt's texture grounding her. Sleep came easier than she expected, the day's noise fading into dreams.
---
Day 4
Elias woke to sunlight slicing through his windows, Orion's nose nudging his arm. His head felt heavy, his eyes gritty. He stumbled to the bathroom and winced at the mirror—dark circles shadowed his face, proof of his sleepless night.
"Great," he muttered, splashing water on his cheeks. "Look like a zombie."
He fed Orion, made coffee, and stood on the deck, the ocean glinting below. Yesterday's encounter wouldn't leave him. That woman—she wasn't just a stranger anymore. He didn't know why, but he wanted to know more. Her name, maybe. Her number. Something.
The thought felt bold, almost silly, but it stuck. Today, he'd try to find her. Crescent Bay wasn't that big, right?
He dressed—jeans, a plain tee—and drove to the observatory. Renovations were still a mess, but his office was usable now. At his desk, he tried to focus on the supernova data, but his mind wandered.
By noon, Jen, his coworker, popped in, her brows rising.
"Eli, what's with the dark circles? You okay?"
Elias leaned back, forcing a grin.
"Didn't sleep much. Was thinking about… stuff."
"Stuff?" Jen laughed, leaning on the doorframe. "That's vague. Work stuff or life stuff?"
He shrugged, not ready to share.
"Just stuff. Got a lot on my mind."
He thought of the woman again—her hair, her voice. He couldn't tell Jen that. Not yet.
Another colleague, Mike, joined them, carrying a sandwich.
"You look rough, man. Late night gaming or what?"
Elias shook his head, sipping his coffee.
"Nah. Just couldn't sleep. I'll be fine."
They talked a bit longer—work, the renovations, a new telescope coming next month. Elias joined in, but part of him was elsewhere, planning. Maybe he'd go back to the café later. Maybe she'd be there.
It was a long shot, but he had to try.
---
Lila woke to her wrist alarm's buzz, the morning air cool through her window. Emma was already in the kitchen, the clink of dishes soft.
"Morning, Lila," Emma called. "Pancakes today?"
"Thanks, Emma," Lila said, wheeling to the table.
Breakfast was quick—pancakes with syrup, coffee black. Emma left after tidying, and Lila settled at her desk. Her podcast waited, the Icarus episode needing polish. She put on headphones, her voice steady as she edited, but her thoughts drifted once.
The café guy. Mara's "handsome" comment. His apology, quick and real.
Lila frowned, pushing it away. Why was she thinking about him? He was nothing—a clumsy moment, already over. She'd had enough of hoping for things that didn't fit her life. Her accident had taken too much—her sight, her legs, her old dreams.
She'd built new ones, better ones, with her stories. That was enough.
By afternoon, she called Mara, planning drinks for tomorrow. Mara teased her again about the "coffee guy," and Lila laughed it off.
"You're ridiculous," she said, but her voice was light.
The memory faded as she worked, her world sharp and full—her mic, her stories, her Crescent Bay.
---
Elias left the observatory at dusk, the sky orange and pink. He drove to the boardwalk, the café's sign glowing. His heart picked up, half-hoping, half-doubting. He stepped inside, scanning the tables. No wheelchair, no chestnut hair. Just strangers, sipping drinks, laughing.
He ordered a coffee anyway, sitting by the window, the ocean dark now. He'd try again tomorrow.
He didn't know her, but he wanted to.
Elias had always believed in one love—the kind that lasted, like stars that never faded. Maybe it was crazy, but something about her felt like the start of something. He sipped his coffee, the dark circles under his eyes a quiet proof of how much she'd shaken him.
---
Lila, at home, played her finished episode, proud of its flow. The servant had left hours ago, and the apartment was hers again. She wheeled to the window, the sea's sound faint but steady. The café moment crossed her mind—one last time, then gone.
Her life was here, in her voice, her stories. Men didn't fit, especially not ones who spilled coffee and vanished.
She went to bed, the quilt soft under her fingers, and slept soundly, her world complete.
---
Crescent Bay breathed, its waves carrying whispers neither heard. Elias, chasing a face he didn't know. Lila, guarding a heart she'd locked away.
Their paths had crossed, but the tide was patient, pulling them slowly toward something new.