“I missed this,” he says.
“Dancing?”
“Being still with you.”
He brushes his lips against my temple, then lower, until the question in the air answers itself.
The rest unfolds like music we already know. The world narrows to his hands, my heartbeat, the slide of breath between us. He tastes like wine and something untranslatable. We move to the rhythm of a tide we’ve been denying since spring. It’stender, heated, reverent; the kind of intimacy that feels like a secret you both already told.
Afterward, the lighthouse beam sweeps through the window, slicing silver across the ceiling. He traces it along my skin like he’s memorizing coordinates.
“This feels like forever,” he murmurs.
“It feels like right now,” I correct, because I’ve learned not to measure time in promises.
He smiles against my shoulder. “Then let’s stay here a while.”
Later, when sleep should be winning, I lie awake listening to the wind. The cat sprawls between us like Switzerland. Crew’s breathing evens out. I reach for my phone to set an alarm for the inspection tomorrow.
There’s a new message.
Laramie:Don’t celebrate yet. We found something in the grant files. Call me first thing.
The words blur, then sharpen. My chest goes cold.
I stare at the ceiling, the lighthouse beam slicing light and shadow across the room, and feel that old dread crawl back in—the one that whispers peace never lasts here.
Outside, the sea keeps breathing. Inside, I stop.
Chapter Twenty-six – Crew
The glow from the lighthouse cuts across the room in measured rhythm, steady as a pulse. Every sweep paints her skin in light and shadow. Bailey’s asleep, tangled in the sheet, the cat perched like a tiny sentinel at her feet. It’s peaceful—the kind of peace that makes a man superstitious.
My phone screen still burns against the nightstand.
Laramie: Don’t celebrate yet. We found something in the grant files. Call me first thing.
Laramie doesn’t use words she doesn’t have to.Don’t celebrate yetmeansthe ground’s about to move.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, running through possibilities. Fraud. A clerical error. Someone claiming the lighthouse belongs to the town, not her. Or worse—someone trying to tie her name to mine again, twist it into another narrative.
I roll onto my side and watch her breathe. The way her lips part slightly with every exhale, the curl of her fingers against the pillow. She trusts the quiet. She trusts me.
I promised her ordinary.
But ordinary keeps coming with asterisks.
The sun rises early, and so does the restlessness. I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, and head downstairs. The floorboards creak, but the sound feels familiar now—like the house acknowledging me.
Coffee first. Thinking later.
By the time Bailey pads down in one of my T-shirts, hair messy, eyes half-closed, the pot’s half-empty, and my nerves are worse.
“You’re awake early,” she mumbles, grabbing a mug.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
She blinks at me over the rim. “I saw the text. I’m sorry.”
