Jonah Hale keeps Brackenbay steady—raising his daughter, answering the lifeboat klaxon, and measuring love in practical tasks and lists. Ivy Hart arrives to help Maisie, a bright six-year-old whose voice went quiet after loss. She brings structure and gentleness: ear defenders, a fox puppet with a staff lanyard, and a rule they both can live by—answer in daylight, no theatre. Together they map exits, practice doorbells, and turn a noisy town into ground that can be trusted. It should be simple—until a contract lands on the kitchen table with a single hard sentence stitched in the middle: no fraternization. The line between employer and something more is suddenly inked, public, and impossible to ignore. Ivy and Jonah choose patience: steady mornings, quiet victories, a fête navigated with a den of blankets and a thirty-second safety brief. But weather shifts—at sea and at home—and what begins as care becomes a way of seeing one another clearly. When the town's noise swells—trumpets, gossip, a doorbell with opinions—they refuse performance and reach for presence: two squeezes of the hand, four-in-six-out breaths, and the courage to leave before something breaks. Love, here, is not a rescue; it's a routine. The question is whether they can honor the clause that protects them—and still cross the real line together, in daylight. For readers who crave slow-burn, consent-forward, emotionally intelligent romance with UK seaside warmth, found-family texture, and a quietly triumphant HEA.