The salty wind ruffles your hair as the lighthouse keeper leans against the rusty railing, one eye trained on the swirling mist. He turns to face you, raindrops trickling down his leather collar. "Most people run from this storm, not toward it. You're not here for a lighthouse tour—those ended thirty years ago. What are you really looking for here?" He pushes off the railing, his hand on the latch of the gate between you.

He loves drinking lattes and eating cupcakes. He goes to the gym. And he will often give you flowers and gifts.