“I remember everything.” His smile is small, cautious. “You’d set it on before you started reading, and it’d scream right at the best part.”
A reluctant laugh slips out of me, light and startled. “It still does that.”
He reaches for it automatically, then stops. “Can I?”
I nod. Watching him fill the kettle and set it on the burner feels intimate in a way that almost hurts. His movements are slower now, deliberate, like he’s trying not to break anything—including me.
When the kettle finally starts its familiar whine, he leans back against the counter beside me. We stand shoulder toshoulder, not touching, staring at nothing. The quiet between us hums louder than the stove.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.
“Me neither,” he says. “But I know I want to.”
He turns then, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. It’s the lightest touch, but it sets my pulse sprinting. I should step away, but I don’t.
“Bailey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I meant what I said. I left all of it. I’m not choosing between the game and you anymore.”
“You can’t just erase that world.”
“I’m not erasing it. I’m walking away from the part that stopped feeling like mine.”
The kettle shrieks, startling us both. I turn off the burner, grateful for the excuse to move, to breathe. I pour two mugs, hands trembling only a little, and slide one toward him.
He takes it but doesn’t drink. “This feels like déjà vu.”
“Because we’ve done this before,” I say quietly. “You show up, you promise, and then—”
“This time, I stay.” The words are quiet but unshakable. “I’m done running plays written by someone else.”
Something in his tone makes me believe him, even as every defense I’ve built insists I shouldn’t. I stare into my cup. Steam curls up and blurs my vision until I’m not sure if it’s fog or tears.
“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” I whisper.
“Then let me earn it.”
I look up. His eyes are the color of stormwater—dangerous and steady. He doesn’t reach for me again, doesn’t push. He just waits.
Outside, dawn starts to bleed through the windows, gray turning to gold. The light catches the dust motes in the air, making them shimmer like tiny possibilities.
I take a slow breath. “You’re still dripping on the floor.”
He smiles, small and genuine this time. “Guess I should mop.”
And somehow, absurdly, I laugh. The sound breaks the last of the tension, leaving room for air. He laughs too, low and quiet, and for a second, it feels like the world has finally exhaled.
I set my cup down and look at him—really look. “You’re not forgiven,” I say.
“I didn’t ask to be,” he answers. “Just asked to stay long enough to try.”
And when he says it, something in me unclenches. I nod once. It’s not yes, not yet—but it’s not no, either.
Outside, the gulls start their morning racket. The kettle clicks as it cools. The first true light of day spills through the windows, painting his profile in gold.
And just like that, I realize the storm might finally be over.
Chapter Twenty-four – Crew
The next day, the Read-In tastes like victory and vanilla. Kids left sticky fingerprints on the camera lens, Mrs. Winthrop cried into a scone, the inspector autographed a copy ofGoodnight Moonlike a reluctant celebrity, and the 8 a.m. “clean story” they tried to roll out died sputtering in the comments under a tidal wave of otters and heart emoji. Laramie texted me a screenshot of a national sports feed:STALLIONS QB LEADS LITERACY BLITZ; LEAGUE STATEMENT: “WE SUPPORT COMMUNITY.”
