They both like solitude. It's the way they met in the first place, and the whole reason why he wants the job. But the lighthouse owner won't let him have it without a wife to keep him company out there, no matter how much he tells them he doesn't need one.
He finds her at the tide pools below the cliff, where he always does. She's never happy to be found, and she's definitely not happy with his idea that they get married. But he explains in his quiet patient way that it won't be real, just a way for them both to have their solitude. She'll be able to devote all her time to studying those little sea creatures she likes so much, without having to worry about meeting her father's expectations for cooking and taking care of the mean old man's house. The lighthouse keeper won't ask that of her. He'd rather do it himself. He likes his solitude after all.
The first couple months of their marriage are fine. They stay out of each other's way. There's a little room, probably meant as a nursery, that she stays in. He calls her Salty, because of how she's always crusted in it from working out at the tide pools, and because of the less-than-demure way she speaks to him. She doesn't call him anything.
When the rain starts in the fall, they're suddenly stuck in the tiny house together a lot. He plays guitar and sings to himself. It's not so bad being stuck with him then. She wonders if he did this during the summertime too, and she just never was around to see it. She wonders what else she's been missing.
He's up all night during the first really big storm, fighting to keep the light going. When he stumbles back into the house at dawn, soaked and shaking so hard his teeth clack together, she's already awake and has a big fire going and hot coffee made. She doesn't tell him that she stayed up all night too.
Turns out nights like this aren't that unusual at the lighthouse. He doesn't complain. It's the job. But one frigid morning, even the fire and the coffee can't seem to warm him up again. Salty comes into his bedroom complaining that she can hear him shivering from out in the living room and climbs under the blankets and wraps her body around him tight. They don't talk, and he soon stops shivering, and she leaves.
That night, she barges back into his room, complaining about having to make sure he's still warm enough. He doesn't protest when she wraps him up again. He doesn't protest when she's still there in the morning, looking so peaceful in her sleep.
The next night, she doesn't even make an excuse, just comes in again, giving him a look that he knows means don't you dare say anything. He obeys.
The night after that, he's the one who wraps her up in his arms.
It's easy to finally kiss one night when it's so dark in the bed they can't even see the other's nose in front of them. It's easy to keep kissing until the kisses become so much more, until they're both wrapped up in each other.
It's still a long time before they kiss in the day, in the light. That feels like crossing the final line. Neither one of them know if the other one wants it. They both like their solitude, after all, and they're not big on talking, especially the lighthouse keeper. Salty would say that it's the fault of the first warmth of spring and the stupid sunshine that makes her go silly and grab his shirt and kiss him while he's planting their little garden. But she's smiling at him when they finish the kiss, dirt on her cheeks from his hands, salt in her wild hair, and he's sure he looks just as flushed and undone and luminously happy as she does.
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