“Report,” I say, handing him coffee.
“Hook defeated. Porch secure. Cat judging.” He nods at the windowsill, where the cat blinks like we’re late for his nap.
The town hums behind us: Rowan’s goats arguing with a bale of hay on the back of his truck, Ivy rehearsing a chorus over by the gazebo, Lila directing volunteers with a clipboard and the subtle authority of a benevolent pirate. The Fall Read-In blossoms at noon—blankets, cider, story time under strings of lights we’ll pretend we hung straight.
“Happy anniversary,” Crew says casually.
I blink. “Of what?”
He bumps my shoulder. “Of the first day you let me behind the counter without a background check.”
“That was a lapse in judgment.”
“Best lapse you’ve ever had,” he says, sipping. “Top three, at least.”
He spends his mornings coaching quarterbacks at the high school, his afternoons here or at Otter Creek Farms, hisevenings being the kind of neighbor who moves porch furniture before storms. It’s the time of year when he’ll jet across the country for broadcasting gigs on the weekends. I follow along because I’m always up for a new adventure like the ones I read about.
He said no to the wordbrandand yes to a life that smells like coffee and grass. Harris took anearly retirementthat was neither early nor voluntary. The league apologized in beige and donated to the foundation in a shade of contrition I accepted because money for historic buildings doesn’t have a conscience.
“Come on,” Crew says, eyes bright. “Lantern room.”
“We have, like, twelve minutes until children descend.”
“Twelve is so many.” He laces his fingers with mine and tows me up the spiral, the familiar, loved climb. The glass is newly polished for the evening tours; the brass gleams; the beam naps until dusk.
He stops where the light makes a perfect square on the floorboards. “Right here.”
I squint at him. “Are we… having a feelings meeting?”
“Possibly.” He pats his hoodie pocket. “But with props.”
“Dear God.”
He takes out a paperback.The Outsiders.My copy—the one with the soft, wrecked spine, the one that hid a note once, the one that changed the weather of my life.
My throat goes tight. “Crew—”
“It’s not the old note,” he says quickly, all dimples and nerves. “That one did its job. This is an update.”
He opens to the middle. A new card peeks out—cream, edges deckled like it belongs in a better century. His handwriting, reckless and neat all at once:
Stay, Gold—C.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “That’s not how the quote goes.”
“I took liberties. I’m a local now.”
He goes to one knee. Not dramatic; not performative. Just a man kneeling in a lighthouse because that’s where his light is.
The ring is simple—thin gold, a single solitaire larger than I’d ever seen. When it hits the glass glow, it throws a small, stubborn flare.
“Bailey Hart,” he says, voice low and steady, “be the chapter after every cliffhanger with me. Marry me. Let’s keep the light, together.”
There are a hundred ways I could make a joke right now, a thousand ways to buy myself a second with humor. But we’ve done enough stalling. The cat isn’t here to judge; the beam’s off; the day holds its breath.
“Yes,” I say, and it’s easy. “Obviously.”
He laughs—relief and joy in one sound—and slides the ring onto my finger. He stands and kisses me, slow and sure, and the room drops away until all that’s left is breath and the taste of apple and the feeling of choosing the same future at the same time.
