“Don’t forget old. Almost a hundred and fifty years,” he added, turning his body toward mine. “Told you I studied.” Like we were a pair of magnets, I moved to face him, our hands falling from the railing but staying twined. With his free hand, he stroked the back of his fingers down my cheek slowly. “But she’s also too important, too unique, and too beautiful to stand by and do nothing while she drowns. While she might look delicate, she’s actually incredibly strong and capable of taking a storm or two.”

I stilled, knowing that he’d stopped talking about the lighthouse.

“Jackson,” I begged, but I wasn’t sure what for.

“Morgan.” His fingers slid to the back of my neck while his thumb repeated the stroke across my cheek.

God, that felt good. A rush of longing filled my entire body, stirring parts of me I was sure had long since died—the parts that remembered need, want, and desire. The parts that remembered how it felt to be the object of someone else’s desire, too. And those neglected pieces of me hungered as they roused, demanding to be acknowledged and appeased.

I fought to find a shred of my common sense amid the onslaught of pure, selfish craving that had me staring at his mouth.

“You don’t want this,” I told him softly, my Jackson-less hand clutching the railing as if it would keep me grounded.

“I don’t want what?” he questioned, lowering his head until our foreheads touched. “Because you can’t tell me that I don’t want you.”

Oh God. Joy, disbelief, yearning—emotions flew at me so fast I could barely process them, but one stood out the loudest. Fear. Was it fear for him or fear of him? Yes.

“You don’t. You can’t. I am a mess, and not just a little mess. I’m the kind that has a pile of wreckage for a heart, anxiety attacks I can’t control, and a therapist I see every week in the hopes that I can eventually talk to my best friend again or just open the door of a truck I never wanted.” My eyes squeezed shut. “Trust me, you don’t want this. You don’t want me.”

“Morgan—”

“No.” I retreated from his arms, and my skin ached at the loss of contact. Was I so desperate for human touch? Just Jackson’s. “I’m not being coy or playing games, which is ironic since I used to be really good at all that. I’m genuinely telling you to run for your life.”

“From you?” The skin between his eyebrows wrinkled, and I was struck with a ridiculous urge to smooth it with my fingers.

“Yes!”