[CW: Some slut-shaming.]

He had let the butler off for an impromptu day off, if only so he could not see his face. He wore a plain black suit that had not seen daylight since Great Uncle Ephraim’s funeral.

His fingers had brushed over a radiant turquoise suit he used to wear back when Simon was still … whatever he was. Writing him? Making plans with him and a thousand other paramours that he might have stabbed after a few too many drinks?

It was years later, and he still changed his mind about Simon every time he smelled the sea. Beautiful man. Hideous liar. Bold, mesmerizing fellow. Good-for-nothing tramp.

Sometimes he forgot … and then he came back to Whitby.

Whitby had been a nice town before both Simon and their mutual friend’s treachery, and it was a nice town three years after. He might have chosen a different summer home each year, as though a change of scenery could make the locale any less Simon’s. It could, and it would, and Zechariah would keep coming back until his pain was finally swept away under the sea with all the rest of the wreckage.

When Zechariah opened the door, there was an uncomfortable pause as he stared down at her.