Caleb stands at the front, shoulders squared, hands relaxed. When he speaks, he doesn’t perform authority. He occupies it.
There’s discussion about land use, about oversight, about what transparency actually means in practice. It’s messy. Necessary. Real.
And then, without fanfare, he does it.
“For the record,” he says, voice steady, “Ellie isn’t just someone who uncovered the truth about this town. She’s my partner. My mate. And I’m proud to stand beside her.”
The room reacts—not dramatically, but honestly.
Some nod. Some exchange looks. A few frowns.
No one storms out.
I don’t feel heat rush to my face. I don’t brace for ridicule.
I simply stand.
Afterward, Janet approaches me with a wry smile. “Well. That answers a few questions.”
“Only a few?” I ask.
“Let’s not get greedy.”
We laugh. The sound feels easy.
Later,walking home beneath a sky bright with moonlight, I slip my hand into Caleb’s.
“This feels different,” I say.
He squeezes my fingers. “Good different?”
“Yes,” I say. “Steady different.”
We stop at the edge of the green, the moon rising high above the treeline. It no longer signals danger. It doesn’t tighten my chest or send my thoughts spiraling.
It justis.
“I used to think being seen was the price you paid for wanting things,” I say quietly. “Now it feels like the reward for surviving long enough to claim them.”
He turns to me. “You don’t have to earn that anymore.”
I meet his gaze, the words I’ve been carrying finally ready.
“I know,” I say. “I belong here. With you. Not because I was chosen—but because I chose it.”
38
CALEB
Ilean against the doorframe of the sheriff's office, watching Ellie navigate the morning crowd outside the diner. She gestures emphatically while speaking to Mrs. Hanson about something—probably the upcoming town council meeting, judging by the way she's counting off points on her fingers.
Just a couple of months ago, she would have positioned herself at the edge of conversations, ready to retreat. Now she stands squarely in the center, taking up exactly as much space as she needs. Her laugh carries across the street, unguarded and genuine.
The familiar tightness that used to coil in my chest when I watched her interact with others doesn't surface. That old reflex—the need to scan for threats, to calculate escape routes, to position myself between her and potential harm—flickers once and dies.
"You're staring."
I turn to find Gregson grinning at me from behind his desk.
