When everyone drifts inside for dessert, I stay out under the string lights. Crew joins me, two beers in hand.
“Peace offering,” he says.
I take the bottle. Our fingers brush, causing a jolt to race up my arm.
“Still mad?”
“Less mad,” I admit. “Mostly overwhelmed.”
He leans on the railing beside me. “We can still take it slow. No one needs to dictate the speed at which we do anything.”
I look at him, the way the light cuts across his face, how the edge of a smile lives there even when he’s serious. “Crew, nothing about you is slow.”
He laughs quietly. “Fair.”
The silence after stretches long enough for the crickets to claim it. He murmurs, “I meant it, you know. About writing our own version.”
I meet his gaze. “Then start the first line.”
He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear again. “Chapter fourteen,” he says. “Where we stop pretending.”
My breath catches.
The light flickers. The night holds its breath.
We don’t kiss that night, but we do linger too long on the farmhouse porch, talking about nothing. Crew’s hand brushes mine whenever he gestures, and every time, it feels like punctuation in a sentence we’re still learning to write.
When he drives me home, the cab smells like pine, and the radio murmurs old songs we both know. The kind that pretend they’re about heartbreak but really mean hope.
He stops at the lighthouse gate and kills the engine. The silence between us is tender, humming.
“Tomorrow?” he says.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper.
He nods, starts to get out like he’s going to open my door, then thinks better of it. His restraint feels louder than any kiss could.
When I climb the steps, I glance back once. He’s still there, truck lights soft against the fog, watching until I vanish inside.
The following morning, gossip still buzzes around town, but softer now—like background static. People have other things to do: bake, fish, live. Maybe that’s what forgiveness sounds like in a small town.
I shelve new arrivals, then scribble “Lighthouse Love” on a display chalkboard because leaning into the joke hurts less than hiding from it. Crew shows up halfway through the afternoon, carrying two coffees and a grin that could undo the weather.
“You renamed a display after us?” he asks.
“Branding,” I say. “We’re trending.”
He laughs, then sets the coffees down and slides one toward me. “Guess we'd better give them something to talk about.”
“Crew—”
He shakes his head. “Not that. Not yet.” He glances around the shop, the shelves glowing in late light.
Before the dinner hour hits, Crew runs out for a bit, then reappears with two more coffees and a tool belt slung low like temptation disguised as competence. He looks like he belongs on a hardware calendar, and I should be arrested for noticing.
“What are we fixing?” he asks, already halfway to the back door that sticks when the humidity sulks.
“Door,” I say. “And my reputation.”
