Page 48 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

When they’re finally asleep, I find him in the downstairs hallway, one hand pressed against the doorframe to his room— our room, maybe. I don’t say anything. I just step into him, slow and sure, and wrap my arms around his waist. He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it all day.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this will all be gone,” he says into my hair.

I squeeze him tighter. “It won’t be.”

But neither of us says forever. Neither of us dares.

We lie on the couch, tangled under a knit blanket. My head rests on his shoulder, our fingers intertwined, the TV murmuring quietly in the background. We’re still and we’re not. My thoughts are racing. My heart feels too big for my chest.

“I used to think I wanted a life that made sense,” I murmur.

He doesn’t move. “And now?”

“Now I want one that feels like this.”

His arm tightens around me. “Me, too.”

And in the quiet of that moment, with the scent of candles and rain lingering in the walls, I finally let myself believe in the kind of love that stays.

The house has gone still again. The kids are down, the TV off. The silence that fills the space now is heavier than before— not lonely, but expectant. Like something important is about to happen, and neither of us is pretending to ignore it.

I head to the kitchen to wash out my wineglass. Dean follows a beat later, barefoot, his shoulder brushing mine as he passes me to grab a glass from the cabinet.

We’re dancing in that space between comfort and need again—close, familiar, but edged with something far more dangerous.

My fingers fumble with the dish towel. “Still doesn’t always feel real.”

“What doesn’t?”

“This. You. The kids. The ever-growing butterfly population.” I glance at him, forcing a smile. “Sometimes I feel like I stepped into someone else’s life.”

He studies me with that same patient, unreadable expression he wears when Oliver is melting down or Evelyn won’t let him brush her hair.

“But it is your life,” he says softly.

“And what if I don’t know how to live it right?”

Dean sets the glass down. His voice is even, but low. “You think you have to be perfect to deserve this?”

I look down at my hands. “I think I’ve spent so long being useful that I forgot how to be wanted.”

He steps forward, one hand cupping my jaw, tilting my chin until I have no choice but to look at him.

“I want you.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Not lustful. Not possessive. Just a truth, spoken like a vow.

“You have me,” I whisper, leaning into his touch. “But I’m still learning how not to brush it off when something feels good.”

His thumb brushes under my cheekbone. “Then I’ll take it slow.”

But when he kisses me, it’s anything but slow.

It’s soft at first—lips brushing, teasing—but there’s heat under the surface, a hunger barely contained. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me closer. I feel him everywhere—chest to chest, breath to breath.

When I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him deeper, he groans low in his throat, backing me up against the kitchen counter. I reach for the hem of his T-shirt and tug gently. He helps me pull it off, then rests his forehead against mine, chest rising and falling like he’s holding himself back.

“Bedroom,” I murmur.

He sweeps me up in his arms before I finish the word.

As he carries me, his eyes never leave mine with a look that steals my breath. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he looks away. Like he’s memorizing me.

The door shuts behind us, soft and final. He sets me down beside the bed but doesn’t rush. His hands settle at my hips, warm and sure, and he just watches me for a moment. My heart is pounding, and I know he can feel it under his fingertips.

He leans in, kissing me again, deeper this time. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and when I open for him, he groans into my mouth like he’s been waiting years for this moment.

My shirt comes off first. Then his hands roam with careful patience, touching the places I used to keep hidden. I’m not self-conscious, not with him. He makes me feel like every inch of my body is worth worshipping.

When his mouth moves down my neck and across my collarbone, I clutch at his shoulders. The scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath—it’s all too much and not enough.

I whisper his name like it’s a secret I’ve only just learned how to say.

“Dean…”

He lifts me, easing me down onto the bed with a devotion that makes my chest ache. Then he kneels above me, fingers teasing down the curve of my thigh, slow and maddening.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over my ribs.

“I’m…” I swallow. “It’s never been like this with anyone else. Just you.”

He pauses. Looks up at me.

“What kind of ‘this’?”

“Someone who sees me. Who makes me feel…” My voice cracks. “Safe. Wanted.”

His mouth softens into something dangerously close to love.

“Good,” he says, dragging his hand slowly up my side, “Because I want you so badly, it’s tearing me apart.”

He makes good on that promise, bit by bit, stripping away the last of my hesitation. My shorts. My underwear. My composure. Every touch is intentional. Every kiss demands a response I can’t help but give.

By the time he moves over me, he’s stripped bare, too. Not just physically, but emotionally. Every inch of his skin is etched with want, and his eyes hold nothing back.

When he presses into me, my whole body arches, demanding. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, shaking breath.

“I want you to feel me tomorrow. Every step you take I want you to remember that you belong to me,” he says softly, brushing a kiss against my cheek.

In the past, anger of being someone’s possession would bubble like lava, but with Dean, the need inside me is so sharp, I need something to anchor me to him.

And God help me, I’d give him anything.

He thrusts inside me like a man haunted, like etching himself inside me. Deeper. Harder. Until I can’t keep quiet.

His name leaves my lips again and again, tangled in breathless gasps and soft curses. The headboard rocks gently with every thrust, a steady rhythm I hold on to like a talisman.

I’m unraveling beneath him, in the best way, like he’s pulling every broken thread and weaving me into something new.

His hand comes down beside my head, steadying both of us.

“I’ve never wanted anyone like this,” he groans against my neck. “You wreck me.”

I don’t answer, I can’t, but I tilt my hips and meet him, body to body, heartbeat to heartbeat, giving everything I have left.

And when I come apart, it’s not just pleasure—it’s a full release of my soul. Every wound, every doubt, every fear burns away under the heat of it.

He follows seconds later, collapsing onto me, breath ragged, body trembling. For a long time, neither of us speaks. He rolls onto his side, pulling me into his arms.

I press a kiss to his shoulder, curling into his warmth.

“Good night, Lila.”

“Good night, Dean.”

The morning creeps in quietly, golden light slipping past the curtains and stretching across the floor in long, lazy ribbons. For a few delicious seconds, I’m suspended in that half-wakeful place where everything still feels like a dream.

Then I feel him. Dean’s arm draped across my waist, one leg tangled with mine, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

We’re tucked together like we’ve always fit this way. And it does feel that way now—easy. Right. But that makes it all the more terrifying.

I shift slightly, enough to stir him. He murmurs something against my skin, pulls me tighter, and presses a kiss to my bare shoulder.

“I love waking up like this,” he mumbles.

I smile into the pillow. “Naked?”

“Naked, wrapped around you, not entirely sure what day it is. Yeah.”

I turn toward him, and his eyes, still sleep-heavy, find mine. He looks younger like this. Softer. Like the years of carrying everything for everyone haven’t caught up to him yet.

“Do you still feel wrecked?” I tease gently, brushing my fingers over his chest.

He catches my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Completely ruined.”

“Good,” I whisper.

We stay curled up for a while longer, cocooned in the warmth of sheets and shared breath. His dick slips in and out of my sex in that lazy way that I’m starting to love until we both crest over the peak. But eventually, reality creeps in.

Pitter-patter steps down the hall.

Dean groans. “Our tiny alarm clocks.”

Sure enough, Evelyn appears in the doorway, holding her stuffed lamb upside down by one paw, wild waves stuck to her cheeks.

“Waffle might be turning into a butterfly today,” she announces like it’s national news.

I glance at the clock. Barely seven.

Dean rolls over. “Let Waffle sleep in, baby. Like me.”

Evelyn climbs onto the bed like a determined squirrel. “But you said I could see her wings. Maybe.”

I grab the sweatshirt on the floor and pull it over my head, laughing as I head to the bathroom. “Give me one second and we’ll check together.”

Downstairs, Oliver’s already at the table, eating a bowl of dry cereal like it personally insulted him. The kitchen is a mess—crumbs, boxes, a single sock on the counter—but I don’t care. This kind of chaos feels good. Lived-in.

Evelyn races to the dining room windowsill, where Waffle still hangs motionless inside her little case.

“No wings yet,” she sighs.

“She’s not ready,” I tell her, smoothing her hair. “Some things take time.”

Dean appears with coffee in hand, still barefoot, wearing yesterday’s jeans and the softest look I’ve ever seen on his face.

He hands me a mug and kisses my temple. “I think she’s ready.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s not talking about the chrysalis.

My stomach flips.

The kids chatter on, voices overlapping like birdsong. Oliver declares he’s going to build Pancake, Waffle, and Maple a habitat out of LEGOs. Evelyn insists butterflies need tiaras. But all I can feel are Dean’s eyes on me—steady, quiet, hopeful.

And the truth hits me like an explosion.

I want this. I want this messy, beautiful life.

I want the tired mornings and sticky counters and conversations about butterfly royalty.

But more than anything, I want the way he looks at me when I don’t even know I’m being watched. The kind that you can just… feel.

Like I’ve already made a home without realizing it.

After a day out on the bay in the boat Dean had delivered a week ago, the kids are down again, finally, and the house has returned to that quiet I’ve learned to love. Not empty. Just settled. Lived in.

I step out onto the deck with my wineglass and a blanket, watching the fireflies flicker in the yard. The last orange smudge of sunset glows along the horizon, soft and warm and fading.

Behind me, the screen door creaks, and then Dean’s there, barefoot again, whiskey in hand, his shirt slung over one shoulder.

“Thought I might find you out here,” he says.

I tuck my knees under the blanket and gesture to the empty chair beside me. “Come sit.”

He does, sinking down with a groan. We sit in silence for a while, our breaths syncing with the hum of summer night sounds.

“You okay?” he asks finally.

I nod. “I think so.”

He tilts his head, eyes scanning my face like he knows exactly where my thoughts lie without even trying. “You don’t have to decide anything yet. About staying. About us.”

“I know,” I say quietly, the words fragile but firm. “But I’m not sure I want to leave anymore.”

That earns a small smile from Dean. Not surprise, just hope. Quiet and steady, like he’s been waiting for me to catch up to what he already knows.

“I think…” I pause, the nerves tangling in my throat, sticky and stubborn. “I think I’m starting to believe that this life isn’t borrowed. That it could actually be mine. That maybe I’m allowed to want something soft. Something safe.”

His hand finds mine on the armrest. Warm, steady. Anchoring.

“You are,” he says gently, voice laced with certainty. “And you don’t owe anyone an apology for needing time. Not me. Not yourself.”

I exhale slowly, watching the way our fingers intertwine. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist like he’s memorizing my pulse.

“But I also can’t pretend that I don’t still want to help people,” I admit, turning my gaze toward the railing.

The backyard glows in the last stretch of sunlight.

“That I don’t want to push the boundaries of science.

Contribute something meaningful. I spent years chasing that dream, not because someone told me I should, but because it’s part of who I am. ”

He says nothing, just listens.

“I want to stay,” I whisper. “God, I do. I want to wake up to pancake mornings and bedtime cuddles and the way you look at me like I’m already yours.

But I also want to make a difference in the world with what I know.

I want both, Dean. And for the first time in my life, I’m starting to believe I might be allowed to have both. ”

His hand tightens around mine.

“You should have both,” he murmurs. “Anyone who tells you otherwise doesn’t deserve a seat in your life.”

I look at him then, really look. The man who showed up not just for me but for every fractured part of my soul I thought was too tired, too tangled, too late to save.

The man who would give me exactly what I wanted, without question, if I would allow him, but understanding enough to know I want to do it all on my own merit.

And just like that, the tight knot in my chest loosens.

Because I’m not choosing one dream over the other. I’m just learning how to make room for both.

I squeeze his fingers. “It’s just… I’ve always known what I wanted. A safe, steady path.”

He nods. “I know that feeling.”

“And now, for the first time, I don’t want to run. But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

“You’re already staying,” he says, looking out over the water. “You’re here now.”

We sit in silence again, letting the night settle around us like a secret. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not just surviving anymore. Maybe I’m beginning.