“Now I’m done hiding.”
He means it. I can feel it in the space between us, in the way he’s looking at me like I’m both reason and result. But I also know him—his need to fix what he didn’t break, his instinct to shoulder every burden in reach.
I touch his arm, just above the scar that cuts across his tricep. “You can’t fight everything, Crew.”
He tilts his head. “Who said I’m fighting?”
Before I can answer, he leans in and kisses me.
It’s not desperate. It’s not gentle either. It’s something truer—like the quiet after thunder. His lips taste like salt and black coffee and the kind of apology that doesn’t need words.
When he finally pulls back, I whisper, “That’s cheating.”
He grins, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “Effective.”
“Infuriating.”
“Still effective.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile gives me away.
By noon, the shop is full. The donation box has been replaced with a carved wooden one that Rowan made, shaped like a tiny lighthouse. A little plaque readsLight belongs to everyone.
Kids are sprawled on the rug again, reading, drawing, dreaming. I sit among them, sorting through new titles, and for the first time in weeks, my heartbeat matches the rhythm of the room.
Crew crouches beside me, passing books like a glorified assistant. He’s wearing a worn baseball cap, the bill shadowing his eyes, and every time he looks up, something inside me unravels a little.
“You know,” he says, voice low, “this might be my favorite version of rehab.”
“Folding cardboard and corralling toddlers?”
“Beats media training.”
One of the kids—Henry, the one who wrote the IOU for seashell money—looks up. “Are you two married?”
Crew chokes on air. I nearly dropThe Velveteen Rabbit.
“No,” I manage.
Henry frowns. “You should be. You talk like my grandparents.”
Crew recovers first. “Old and loud?”
“Gross but in love. Yuck,” Henry says cheerfully and goes back to coloring.
Crew leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “Can’t argue with the wisdom of children.”
“Don’t start.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He’s lying. I can hear it in his smile.
That night, we walk the beach. The sky’s bruised purple, the waves gentle, the air thick with that pre-storm electricity Coral Bell seems to thrive on.
I kick at the foam curling over my toes. “You ever think we’re just living inside some cosmic joke?”
“All the time.”
