The Eighth Seat – Act I

He was the last person I expected to see back in that boathouse—sun-browned, leaner than I remembered, and already carrying himself like he belonged.

Two years ago, Rylan Hart left me with nothing but an eight-word note and a bed that stayed cold for months.

Now he’s back in my boat, and I can already feel him in my bones.

The boat moved like it had something to prove.

Seven of us. The water was dark and glassy. The shell sliced through the river with clean precision, each stroke locking into rhythm, each breath disciplined. The early light clung to the cove’s edges, and the mist skimmed the banks like the morning hadn’t made up its mind yet.

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