Twenty minutes later, Locke is standing in the front entryway, treating our upcoming beach walk like an Arctic expedition. He’s laid out a row of gear on the bench like a commander preparing for battle, checking zipper tracks and wool thickness with absurd seriousness.
"Locke, I already have two thick sweaters on," I say as he manually pulls a heavy knit hat down over my ears, carefully tucking stray strands of my dark hair out of my face with his thick fingers. “And a vest.”
"Don't care," he grunts, wrapping a long wool scarf twice around my neck until only my eyes and nose are visible before holding out my heavy winter coat. “The wind coming off the open water is brutal today.”
“Okay, okay.”
He slides my arms into the sleeves and zips it up all the way to my chin himself, his large,
