Crew leans closer and whispers, “He’s about to redefine that word.”
The judge’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Mr. Harris, the court doesn’t appreciate creative definitions.”
There’s a murmur through the gallery—reporters, locals, friends who turned up because Coral Bell shows up when it matters. Ivy’s in the back row, wearing sunglasses indoors like she’s ready for a press conference. Lila’s scribbling furious notes like this is a group project she refuses to fail.
Harris tries to spin a narrative about “administrative miscommunication,” but the judge cuts him off with the efficiency of a man who’s heard every version ofit wasn’t me.“The court finds that the matching-fund clause was inserted fraudulently and that all subsequent threats of default are null. The grant stands. Ms. Bailey Hart retains full ownership of the property.”
The gavel hits. The sound is small, but the relief is seismic.
Crew squeezes my hand once, hard, like he’s checking if this is real.
We persevered, and I get to keep the lighthouse and the grant.
Outside, the air tastes like sunlight and exhaustion. Cameras flash. Reporters shout questions aboutthe comeback,aboutredemption arcs,aboutthe football star who found love in a lighthouse.Crew shields me with his arm and a smile that isn’t for them—it’s for me.
“Do we say anything?” I whisper.
He leans down. “Not to them.”
Then he looks straight into a camera lens and says, “Sometimes light just finds you.”
It’s the kind of line that’ll end up in headlines, sure, but it’s also true, and I love him for meaning it.
Back at the lighthouse, the town has already turned victory into a festival. Someone strung bunting across Main Street. Mrs. Winthrop baked an entire fleet of pies. The donation jar now readsFor Future Storms.
Crew and I sneak through the back to avoid getting kidnapped by gratitude. He collapses onto the couch like he’s been holding the planet up single-handed.
“You know,” he says, “I thought winning would feel louder.”
“It’s the quiet kind of win,” I tell him. “The kind you have to sit still to hear.”
He looks at me, eyes soft. “I’m not great at still.”
“You’re learning.”
He grins. “Effective.”
I throw a cushion at him, and he catches it one-handed, the way muscle memory always will. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m done with them, Bailey.”
“The Stallions?”
He nods. “They offered to ‘revisit terms.’ Said I could go back to mentoring next week if I sign their apology script. I told them I’m writing my own.”
I blink. “You’re walking away.”
“I’m walking toward something better.”
“And that is?”
He reaches out and touches the charm on my wrist. “This. You. Kids who come here to read. A place where I’m not a headline. And I’m actually excited about the part-time broadcasting job.”
I swallow hard. “You’re sure?”
“I’m done choosing the roar over the quiet.”
Tears prick my eyes before I can stop them. “You’ll miss it.”
“I’ll miss throwing passes,” he admits. “But maybe it’s time I learn to catch.”
