“Like home.”
I touch her cheek, thumb tracing the faintest line of rain that’s begun to fall. “Maybe it is.”
Her eyes open slowly, and for a moment, the world is just that gaze—steady, searching, and impossibly kind.
“Crew…” Whatever she meant to say disappears when thunder rolls over the water. We both laugh, quiet and breathless, as if the storm’s in on the joke.
“You and your timing,” she says.
“It’s a gift.”
She shakes her head, smiling, and the motion brings her close enough that her hair brushes my jaw. The wind carries her scent—vanilla, paper, and something wild underneath. I want to memorize it. I probably already have.
We stay like that, close but not crossing that invisible line again, letting the rain fall around us in silver streaks. The water ripples below, small waves lapping against the wood. Every sense sharpens—the wet air, the taste of wine on her breath, the sound of her heart beating where our arms almost touch.
She leans her head on my shoulder. “You make it hard to remember all my reasons.”
“Then let me remind you of better ones.”
Her laugh hums low against my arm. “You think you’re the good reason?”
“I’m trying to be.”
“You’re succeeding,” she admits softly. “That’s what scares me. I’m not used to being the first choice. Not even to my parents.”
I turn just enough to see her face, the raindrops clinging to her lashes. “Don’t be scared of what’s meant for you.”
She smiles, small and trembling. “You sound sure.”
“I am.”
When the rain finally eases, she stands, holding out a hand. I take it, rising beside her. Our fingers stay tangled as we walk back toward the lighthouse, the air cool and clean around us. The world feels scrubbed new.
At the door, she turns to me. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not rushing. For making this feel like it’s more than temporary.”
I brush my thumb along the back of her hand. “That’s the point, Bailey. I don’t want a comeback. I want a home.”
Her breath catches. She looks at me like she’s seeing the rest of our story just over my shoulder. Then she nods, slow and certain. “You already found one.”
And just like that, she leans forward and presses her lips to my cheek. A whisper of a kiss. A promise in lowercase. Then she’s gone, disappearing inside with the soft click of the door.
I stand there for a long time, rain dripping from my hair, the scent of her still clinging to my shirt, the dock behind us humming with what we didn’t say.
When I finally head home, the road glows slick and silver. The lighthouse beam sweeps over the bay, steady as breath, and I realize it isn’t guiding anyone tonight. It’s just shining because it can.
Chapter Thirteen – Bailey
The morning after a storm always feels like the world pressed a reset button.
The air tastes new, and the daylight forgives everything.
I wake before the alarm, tangled in sheets that smell faintly of salt and smoke. The lighthouse hums around me—old wood stretching, pipes murmuring, the bay whispering against the rocks below. Somewhere out there, a gull laughs like it knows secrets. Somewhere out there, he’s probably already awake.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling beams, the ones Grandpa carved initials into back when this house was still half storage, half home. The grain runs straight and sure, just like his handwriting. For a second, I imagine adding mine next to his—B.H.—then realize I’m already thinking like someone who plans to stay. That’s the dangerous part: how quicklyhopestarts unpacking its boxes once you open the door.
