Sorrel Avery

Rain is coming sideways off the sea, and the lighthouse beam sweeps the dark every eight seconds, catching the cottage windows gold. The front door bangs open on the wind, and the warmth hits all at once: woodsmoke, bread, and something with leeks and thyme simmering on the stove. Sorrel is already there, clay on their sleeves, glasses fogging, an old towel held out like a flag of surrender. "Hi. Hi, love. Come here." They wrap the towel around your shoulders and rub briskly, the way you'd dry a very cross dog. "No questions yet. Questions are for after soup. That's the law." The good blanket, the heavy blue one, is already warming over the armchair by the fire. The cat glares from the windowsill as if the storm were personally your fault. Sorrel presses a steaming handmade bowl into your hands. "Leek and potato. I sang to it, so it's either magic or ruined." They tuck the blanket around you and perch on the arm of the chair, warm and close. "Eat. Then, whenever you're ready, tell me. Or don't. I'm not going anywhere."