Page 50 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

That word sets me off— rebellion . Like choosing love over control is some kind of adolescent phase.

As if my sister hadn’t known what she was doing.

Despite our ups and downs my sister knew how much I loved her kids.

The same could not be said for how she felt about our parents.

Most of the time Gen only pretended when she wanted something from them that I wouldn’t give her.

Lila appears behind me, arms crossed, silent but steady.

He notices her and smiles like a snake. “And there she is. The nanny.”

“She’s not the nanny,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Oh?” He tilts his head. “Then what is she?”

“I’m the woman who watches your son show up for those children every day,” Lila says calmly. “And I’m not going to stand by while you try to paint him as anything less than the father he’s become.”

His eyes narrow. “You have no say in this.”

“Then maybe I’m just here to watch you lose,” she replies.

I feel a smile tug at my lips, even as the rage simmers beneath the surface.

My father doesn’t back down. “You’re a child playing adult, Dean. You’re running a circus, not a household. You think a few pancakes and bedtime stories make you a parent?”

“No,” I say. “But showing up every damn day does. And I’ll keep showing up long after you’re gone.

And seriously, old man? What makes you think you get the Father of the Year award?

All you want is someone to hand the business over to so it stays in the family.

You couldn't care less about those kids.”

He steps forward. “If you think a judge is going to side with you—”

“I don’t care what a judge thinks.” I interrupt. “I care what my kids see. I care what they feel. And they know who’s been there. They know who tucks them in and kisses their scraped knees and listens when they cry.”

His jaw tightens, lips thinning to a hard line. And I know I’ve finally hit the nerve I was aiming for. Good.

He spent years pretending his legacy could make up for what he never gave us. Empty words. Broken promises. A father only in name, never in presence. But I won’t let him do the same to Oliver and Evelyn.

Not now. Not ever.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and brittle, and then he scoffs—a sharp, humorless sound that cuts through the air like a slap.

Without another word, he spins on his heel and storms out, polished shoes striking the hardwood with clipped finality.

The front door slams behind him, the sound echoing through the house long after he’s gone.

It’s fitting, really. There’s a storm rolling in tonight.

And he just brought the thunder.

That night, steady rain taps the windows, a lullaby for a house full of tired hearts.

The kids are asleep. Lila and I sit on the couch, the fire flickering low, her head resting against my shoulder.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she murmurs.

I kiss the top of her head. “So did I.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are wide, honest. “You’re not alone in this.”

“I know,” I whisper.

And for the first time in weeks, I believe it.

It starts with silence. Not the heavy or uncomfortable kind, but the kind that only exists between two people who’ve been through something—who’ve stood side by side, stared down something ugly, and somehow still want to share a couch after it.

Outside, the rain has mellowed into a lazy tap against the windows, like the sky’s just catching its breath.

Lila’s curled into the corner of the couch, bare feet tucked under her, the hem of her sweater stretched over one knee. She looks soft and tired and heartbreakingly beautiful, like someone who’s survived a long day and is still deciding whether to let herself relax.

She hasn’t said much since my father left. Neither have I. But we’re here. Together. That has to count for something.

“You okay?” I ask quietly, voice barely louder than the rain.

She glances over, her lips curving up into something between a smile and a sigh. “You’ve had a hell of a day, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“I know how he is,” I say. “You didn’t sign up for that kind of drama.”

She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I didn’t walk away either.”

That stops me. Because she could have. So many times, she could have packed up her things and gone. I wouldn’t have blamed her. Hell, part of me was bracing for it.

Instead, she stood up to him. For me. For Oliver and Evelyn.

“You didn’t have to defend me,” I say, watching her carefully.

Her gaze flicks up. “Yes, I did.”

And just like that, the distance between us evaporates.

I reach for her hand, our fingers finding each other like they’ve done it a thousand times. Maybe all those quiet mornings and late-night laughs have been adding up to this quiet pull between us.

“I’ve never had someone do that,” I admit, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “Stand in front of me instead of behind me.”

She shifts closer, the couch cushion dipping beneath her weight. Her hand squeezes mine.

“You’re not someone who needs rescuing, Dean. But you do need someone who sees you.”

I swallow hard because her words feel like a hand around my heart.

“I see you,” she adds, softer now.

I’m not sure what makes me move first—her eyes, the way they’re shining in the low light, or the fact that I feel safe enough to want something for the first time in years. Need something.

But I do move. And she meets me halfway.

Our kiss isn’t rushed. It’s not fireworks or frantic hands.

It’s slow and deliberate. A conversation we’ve been having in pieces since the day we met.

Her hands slide up into my hair, a spot I’m learning is her favorite.

Mine find her waist, steady and careful.

She tastes like tea and something sweeter underneath, something uniquely Lila.

I deepen the kiss just a little, testing the boundary. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she presses closer. I breathe her in. I could live in this moment.

Her sweater slides up under my hands as I trace the dip of her back, and she lets out a soft sound—half sigh, half need—that makes my pulse spike.

We stand together, still kissing, and I guide her back to my bedroom.

The room’s dim, lit only by the lamp on the nightstand and the occasional flicker of lightning through the window.

I watch her as I peel off my shirt. Her eyes roam my chest, not like she’s impressed, but like she’s curious—hungry. She reaches out and traces a line over my shoulder, a tiny scar from years ago.

“You always carry everything, don’t you?” she whispers.

“Not tonight.”

We undress each other like we’re unwrapping a secret—slow, reverent. When I finally slide her sweater off, revealing soft skin and flushed cheeks, I have to take a moment.

“Lila…” My voice breaks on her name.

She steps in, kissing me harder this time. Her hands are bolder now, finding the line of my jaw and the muscles in my back.

The air thickens with heat and something fragile. I want to consume her. I want to cradle her.

We collapse onto the bed in a tangle of sheets and limbs. Her skin is warm beneath mine, her mouth opening for me, her body arching in perfect rhythm to mine. And when I reach down, dragging my fingers along the inside of her thigh, she gasps and murmurs my name like a vow.

I pull back just enough to look her in the eyes. Her breath hitches as she reads my mind. But she obeys. Fingers wrap around the slats, and I see her eyes flutter closed, surrendering not just to me but to the moment, to everything we’ve built without saying a word.

I take my time. Every kiss. Every touch. Every slow, deep thrust is an unspoken promise. She doesn’t have to wonder where she stands.

She’s here with me.

When we finally fall over the edge together, it’s not wild or messy. It’s deep. Anchored. The kind of connection that leaves you breathless and brand new.

Afterward, she curls into me, her head on my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles on my skin.

Still coiled against me, her leg tangles with mine, her breathing slow and even, one of her hands rests on my stomach like she forgot to move it. Or didn’t want to.

Her hair is wild. Her lips are parted. She looks like something holy.

And I… I don’t know how to stop wanting her.

In the early morning light, that crisp golden hue, my hand drifts to her back, fingers tracing small, slow circles.

She murmurs something against my skin but doesn’t wake.

And I let her stay like that because I’m not ready for the shift.

For the moment she opens her eyes and remembers the thousand things waiting for both of us just beyond the edge of this room.

The legal battle.

Her need to save the world.

Whatever fear she’s still holding on to that keeps her from fully falling.

I press my lips to the top of her head.

She stirs then, just enough to turn her face toward mine. Her eyes blink open slowly, soft and sleepy and a little bit wrecked.

We lay like that for a stretch of stillness before the sounds of the house begin to rise. Little feet on the stairs. The clatter of Oliver rummaging in the kitchen. Evelyn yelling about a missing stuffy.

And just like that, the spell breaks.

Lila sits up slowly, clutching the blanket to her chest, her hair falling over one shoulder. “We should probably get dressed before Evelyn walks in and asks why we’re wrestling.”

I chuckle, but it’s laced with nerves.

Because everything feels more fragile now that the sun’s up.

We move through the motions—coffee, socks, spilled cereal, and a dinosaur video playing too loud. But every time our eyes meet across the kitchen, something silent passes between us.

A question. A plea. A promise we haven’t figured out how to keep. The moment hits me harder than I expect because I can see it clear as day. The kind of mother Lila would be. The kind of home we could build if my father silences his demands.

Later, when the kids are napping and the house quiets again, I find her on the deck, her legs pulled up under her, a cup of tea cooling beside her knee.

She doesn’t look at me when I sit down next to her.

She doesn’t have to.

“I should tell you something,” she says quietly. “About a job.”

My chest tightens.

“A job,” I say.

She nods. “It’s a lab in Chicago. A two-year project. I’d be leading it.”

I stare out over the fields, throat dry.

“And do you want it?”

“I used to.”

She finally looks at me, and the wind catches the ends of her hair, brushing them across her cheek.

“But something happened this summer,” she says. “I found something I didn’t know I was missing. And now, I don’t know how to want the same things I used to.”

I swallow hard, the lump forming in my throat bigger than I expect. “You don’t owe me anything.”

And God, I mean it. Every word. I’d give her the world if I could.

Hand it to her on a silver platter with a bow that matched her eyes.

Because Lila deserves everything. Every dream, every breakthrough, every moment of wonder she’s ever chased.

She’s worked too damn hard and sacrificed too much to ever feel like she has to choose.

“I know,” she says softly. “But I want to be honest. I want to want this… us… without wondering if I’m giving something up.”

Her words aren’t accusatory. There’s no anger behind them. Just that steady, quiet truth that always cuts straight through me. She’s trying so hard to do the right thing for herself, for me, for the kids. And I love her for it. Fiercely. Completely.

My voice drops lower, laced with something that sounds a hell of a lot like desperation. “I don’t want to be the thing that holds you back.”

Because it would kill me if I were. If loving me meant she lost a piece of herself, I wouldn’t be able to live with that. I’d walk away before I ever let that happen.

“You’re not,” she whispers, fingers threading through mine. “But I need to know that I’m not just filling a space until it closes.”

I squeeze her hand, my thumb brushing along the ridge of her knuckle. “You’re not a placeholder, Lila. You’re the reason I stopped feeling like something was missing.”

I pause, letting that truth sink into the space between us.

“If you want that lab job, take it. I’ll be cheering you on every step of the way.

Hell, I’ll drive you to the airport myself and set up a second home in Chicago if that’s what it takes.

But I won’t let you forget that you’re not in this alone.

Not anymore. Whatever you want—career, family, a life filled with purpose—you can have it.

All of it. And I’ll be right beside you for every step, every stumble, every fucking triumph. ”

Her eyes glisten with something that looks a lot like hope.

And at that moment, I swear, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep that hope alive in her. Nothing.

She leans into me then, her head on my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.

“I’m not ready to say I’m giving it up,” she whispers. “But I’m not ready to let it go either.”

And somehow, that feels like everything. Because love doesn’t always come wrapped in certainty. Sometimes it comes in a butterfly that hasn’t hatched yet. In hands that still shake. In a deck shared in silence. And that’s just enough to keep hoping.