“Maybe we should start laughing.”
He slides his arm around my shoulders. “Or maybe we change the punchline.”
We walk in silence for a while, our steps falling into sync. When we reach the dock, he stops, hands in his pockets.
“Bailey, what do you want?”
I look up. “Right now?”
“In general.”
I take a breath. The truth tastes simple. “I want to stop surviving my own story.”
He studies me, jaw tightening. “Then write a new one.”
“With you?”
“If you’ll have me.”
The words hang there, fragile and certain. The beam from the lighthouse sweeps over us, a single flash of silver on water, and I realize something that breaks me open—every time that light passes, it’s not looking for danger. It’s looking to guide someone home.
I reach for his hand. “Then don’t stop showing up.”
He pulls me against him, forehead resting against mine. “Not even if you tell me to.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Because I won’t.”
We end up back at the lighthouse, the air humming with something too big for language. He kisses me before the door closes, and the world goes quiet. His hands slide under my shirt, mine in his hair, our breaths uneven but certain. It’s not the desperate kind of need anymore—it’s the belonging kind.
Later, tangled in sheets and moonlight, he whispers, “You know the thing about storms?”
“What?”
“They always leave the sky cleaner.”
I smile against his chest. “Poetic.”
“Effective.”
I laugh, half asleep. “Still infuriating.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Good night, Lighthouse.”
And for the first time in years, I don’t dream of leaving.
The courthouse smells like dust, ink, and nerves. It’s not the grand kind of courtroom you see on TV—just paneled walls, humming lights, a ceiling fan that’s seen too many summers. Still, it feels like history is being decided here, and a part of me wishes I’d worn armor instead of a navy dress that wrinkles if you breathe wrong. Given the potential public nature of the parties involved, I was surprised at how quickly our case was heard.
Crew sits beside me, hand warm over mine. He’s in a dark suit that fits him too well for comfort—not just the fabric, but the way it settles on a man who’s spent his life in uniforms and jerseys. Laramie’s lawyer team representing us stands in front, posture sharp enough to cut the tension in half.
Harris sits on the opposite side of the aisle, his tie knotted so tight it looks like it’s choking him. When our eyes meet, his expression flickers—not guilt, not fear, just calculation. The kind of look that measures outcomes instead of people.
The judge enters. Everyone stands. The room exhales.
Our lawyer speaks first, voice steady. She lays out the chain of emails, the falsified clause, the screenshots, and the intern's witness statement, who risked everything to tell the truth. Every syllable is a nail driven into the lie that tried to bury us.
When she finishes, the judge leans back, tapping a pen against his file. “Mr. Harris, do you have counsel?”
Harris clears his throat. “Yes, Your Honor. But I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”
