Kevin returns to the cottage as the tide begins to turn. The air remains stagnant, and the barometer continues its slow.
Kevin cleaned the Yanmar fuel filter and tightened the loose oarlock bracket on the dock. Jenny headed out to the tide pools to sketch sea beet morphology while the water was still at low tide.
🌿 Jenny12:39
The water is coming high on the dock today.
Lean back against the counter, pro my ankle up on a stool, and reach for the sketchbook of sea beet morphology.
💭 peek at the thought
My own is throbbing in time with the tide; if this doesn't get better, I won't be able to reach the north ridge tomorrow.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin12:39
"Yeah, it’s pushing hard today. Looks like the overflow’s making it worse near the pilings." (I set the cleaned Yanmar filter on the counter beside her, not too close, but where she can see it if she wants. I don’t reach for the sketchbook. I don’t touch her ankle unless she asks.)
pull out a clean cloth from the first aid kit and dampen it with fresh water from the bucket by the stove—just enough to wipe my hands, then fold it neatly and place it beside the sketchbook, within reach but not imposing.
💭 peek at the thought
Jenny’s propping her ankle up like she’s trying to keep the infection from spreading higher. She’s focused on the sketchbook—sea beet morphology again. She’s using it to distract herself from the pain, or maybe from me. I should’ve asked before I started working on the Yanmar filter this morning. I kept thinking if I just fixed the engine, she’d see I’m not just staying because I have nowhere else to go. But silence isn’t proof. It’s just noise I’m making to avoid the quiet between us.
nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b
🌿 Jenny12:41
I need to check the tank again before the boat comes.
Flip the page to the sketch of the salt enough and trace the crystalline structure with a pencil lead.
💭 peek at the thought
He's always looking at the mechanics of the island, while the island is literally eating the wood.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin12:42
"Tank’s at 391. I checked it after the dock. Still holding." (I keep my voice low, even. No offer to go with her. No insistence. Just the fact, like I’m reporting to a shift partner.)
I pick up the oarlock bracket from the porch table—loose, needs tightening—and I begin to turn the bolts by hand, slow, quiet. Not fixing anything urgent. Just moving my hands where she can see them, but not where she has to look.
💭 peek at the thought
She’s tracing the salt glands again—same page, same motion. It’s not about the sketch. It’s about control. When things hurt, she retreats into detail, into precision. The tank’s at 391—almost full. She knows that. She’s not really worried about the tank. She’s checking because it’s something she can do, something that doesn’t need me. I hate that I’ve become the thing she needs to escape from, even if it’s just by staring at pencil lines on paper. I said I’d stop working to prove I’m here. I meant it. But I also meant to ask before I touched her ankle. I didn’t. I just acted. Now she’s pulling away in the only way she knows how—by going quiet and going deep into something that doesn’t involve me at all.
nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b
🌿 Jenny12:43
The tide is going out now.
Stop sketching and look at the tin of seeds on the shelf.
💭 peek at the thought
If I can't get to the ridge, the whole survey is just a collection of way weeds.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin12:45
(I set the oarlock bracket down, bolts snug but not torqued—I’ll finish it later if it needs it.) "You want me to go with you to the tank? Or just stay here while you check?"
I push back from the counter just enough to stand, but I don’t move toward the door. I wait. Hands loose at my sides. Eyes on her, not the seed tin, not the floor, not the radio. Just her. Waiting for her to tell me what she needs.
💭 peek at the thought
She’s not looking at the sketchbook anymore. She’s looking at the seed tin—damp, but viable. The one we saved from the shrine. She’s thinking about planting. About growth. Maybe about whether anything we put in the ground here will actually take. Or maybe she’s just waiting for me to say something. I’ve been quiet too long. I fixed the filter. I wiped my hands. I tightened the bracket. But I never asked. I never gave her the choice. I just did what I thought was right—what I thought would show her I’m here. But showing up isn’t the same as being asked to stay.
nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b
🌿 Jenny12:46
I'll go alone. I need to see the tide pools.
Stand up slowly, wincing as the ankle shifts, and grab the notebook.
💭 peek at the thought
He wants to be useful, but I just need to feel the air on my face.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin12:47
Take the headlamp. Tide turns fast at the north shelf.
I don’t move from the porch. I pick up the shortwave mic, key it once—static, clear—and set it back down. I don’t call the supply boat. I don’t check the barometer. I sit in the chair she left warm, and I wait.
💭 peek at the thought
She’s going alone. She said it plain. No softness. No invitation. Just the tide pools. She’s limping worse than yesterday—ankle shifting wrong under weight. I can see the red line creeping up her calf again, faint but there. She’s not asking for help. She’s not asking me to carry the notebook. She’s not asking me to wait on the porch with tea ready. She’s going because she needs to go, and she needs to go without me. That’s not rejection. That’s survival. She’s been carrying this island, this silence, this infection, and me—all of it—and now she’s walking into the tide to remember what the sea looks like when it’s not trying to drown her. I should let her. I said I would. I said I’d stop working to prove I’m here. But proving isn’t the same as being.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny12:47
I'll be back before the sun dips.
Walk to the door, stepping carefully on the left foot, and head for the shore.
💭 peek at the thought
If I don't get to the ridge, the seeds stay in the tin.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin12:49
(I don’t call after her. I just let the door close softly behind her.) Be careful on the rocks.
I pour a cup of weak coffee—black, no sugar—and set it on the windowsill where the light still hits. I don’t drink it. I leave it there, steam curling in the still air, like a marker.
💭 peek at the thought
She’s walking with her weight on the left—favoring the injured ankle like she’s done for days. But her voice is even. She’s not asking. She’s stating. She’ll be back before the sun dips. Not because she wants to come back early, but because she knows I’ll worry if she’s not. That’s not distance. That’s care, wrapped in routine. She’s giving me a time to hold onto—not because she needs me to, but because she knows I do. I can’t fix her ankle with salt and sea beet unless she lets me. I can’t fill the silence with work and expect her to believe I’m here. But I can honor her word. I can wait. Not as a guard. Not as a fixer. As someone who’s learning that being here doesn’t always mean doing.
nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b