And by mid-morning, it isn’t spectacle anymore. It’s just obvious: I’m with them. They’re with me. And there’s no hiding it.
By the end of the first full week, the novelty settles into something quieter.
The looks don’t stop – but they change.
At first, people stare because it’s new. Because four men orbiting one woman in a place this small is unusual enough to be worth an extra glance over a coffee cup. There are murmurs. There are half-finished sentences that pause when I walk past.
But there’s no sharpness in it.
No hostility.
Just assessment.
The first time I walk through the harbour alone – without one of them at my side – Mrs Halpern from the florist steps out onto the pavement as I pass.
“You alright, love?” she asks, in that deceptively casual tone that means she’s asking about more than the weather.
“I’m good,” I tell her honestly.
She studies my face for a moment.
People used to look at me differently when I first arrived. Polite. Guarded. Something tight around the eyes. Like they were bracing for something because I was new. Unknown. A stranger.
That’s gone now.
Mrs Halpern nods once, apparently satisfied.
“Good,” she says. “You look it.”
That becomes the pattern.
Not interrogation.
Confirmation.
The town knows I’m bonded, and somehow, they also know that my father is dead. Doesn’t matter that they never met him or that we’re not originally from around here. They know everything that happened during the ‘incident’. That word moves through conversation like a sealed envelope – passed carefully, opened rarely.
No one asks me for details. No one presses. But I get the impression that in a town this small, everyone knows everything anyway.
At the surf school, nothing feels strained. Parents still book lessons. Teenagers still hang around the deck pretending not to watch Kai demonstrate pop-ups in the sand. The early morning regulars still line up for coffee before heading out onto the water.
If anything, there’s a subtle shift in how people speak to me.
More direct.
Less cautious.
Like I’ve stepped out from behind a shadow and they’re recalibrating.
Finn’s presence smooths what little ripple there could have been. His surname carries as much weight here as the Butlers’ does – generational, rooted. When he moves through the surf school, shaking hands, clapping a shoulder, discussing permits or tide schedules in that calm, measured voice of his, it sends a quiet message: Everything is handled. Everything is stable. There will be no scandal.
And because he stands beside me openly – because he doesn’t flinch from it – no one else does either.
Kai thrives in it, of course.
He’s impossible to miss on the beach, laughing too loudly, sun catching in his hair, flirting shamelessly with life itself. But even his teasing feels different now. There’s an undercurrent of certainty to him. He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t perform.
He just…exists. He’s himself. Still effervescent, but now it seems to stem from genuine joy, rather than a need to perform like before. He’s loved taking over the running of the surf school to free Sol up to spend more time in the kitchen, and has been exemplary and reliable ever since.