Page 52 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

He listens quietly, patiently. Like he always does when the world inside me is too loud.

When I finish, he nods slowly. “How do you feel?”

“Lighter. And also like I’ve been holding my breath for two years.”

He shifts closer. Not all the way. Just enough that our knees brush.

“You can let it out now,” he murmurs.

My eyes sting again. I blink fast.

“I’m scared,” I whisper. “Of what it means if I stop being angry. If I stop protecting myself.”

He reaches over and threads our fingers together.

“You’re allowed to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and start living, Lila.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that simple. Since I ran, I’ve constantly been looking over my shoulder.”

“No, it’s not that simple,” he agrees. “But it’s worth it.”

The air thickens between us. His thumb moves across my knuckles slowly, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

“You don’t have to run anymore,” he adds.

That undoes me. Completely.

I shift, curling into his side, letting his warmth soak into my skin. My head rests on his shoulder, and his arm wraps around me like it belongs there. We sit like that for a long time.

And for the first time since my life cracked apart, I think maybe love isn’t supposed to fix the broken things.

Maybe it just gives you a soft place to land while you heal.

The following morning, I try my hardest to ignore the urge to check the news.

Deciding a shower is my best bet, I slip out of the comfort of Dean’s arms. The steady pattering of the water against the tile soothes me.

Steam curls through the air, clinging to the bathroom mirror and sliding down the glass shower door like rain on a windowpane.

I tilt my head back, let the hot water trail down my spine, and close my eyes.

My muscles, still pleasantly sore from the night before, begin to unwind.

It's early, too early, technically, but after tossing and turning half the night thinking about Dean and Prescott, sleep had become impossible.

I run my hands over my arms, chasing away the goose bumps that have more to do with memory than temperature. Dean’s hands. Dean’s mouth. The way he looks at me like I’m something he’ll never stop craving.

I’m lost in the moment when the door opens.

I freeze mid-rinse, heart skittering in my chest. But it’s only Dean, sleep-mussed and shirtless wearing nothing but joggers that hang dangerously low on his hips. He doesn’t even flinch at the sight of me through the steam-covered glass.

“Morning,” he mumbles, his voice low and gravelly from sleep.

I should be mortified. Embarrassed. Something. But I’m not. Instead, I stare. Not even pretending not to.

Because Dean is beautiful. Disarmingly so. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions. His abs flex as he moves toward the sink. There’s a slight crease between his brows, like he hasn’t fully woken up, and the way his eyes flick to mine in the mirror lights my entire body up with awareness.

He gets to work on his morning routine. Spits mint foam into the sink, rinses, and then turns to face me, arms folded loosely across his chest.

“Well, this is a hell of a way to start the day,” he says, eyes raking over the foggy outline of my body behind the glass. “If I’d known there was going to be a view like this, I would’ve set an alarm.”

I laugh, breathless and a little giddy, and reach for the soap, grateful for the cover even if the glass is too clouded for him to see much.

“You could knock, you know.”

“I live here,” he counters with a grin. “Besides, we’re way past knocking, don’t you think?”

That makes me blush, heat blooming in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the shower.

Dean walks over slowly, stopping just short of the door. “Want company?”

I arch a brow. “Dean.”

“Kidding.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Mostly.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You like it.”

And dammit—I do.

Something about this moment feels more intimate than anything else we’ve shared. He could’ve looked away. Could’ve made a joke and left. Instead, he brushes a knuckle across the foggy glass, right where my shoulder is, and lingers there.

“You staying in there all morning?” he asks.

“Tempting.”

“Well, if you get cold, I’m making pancakes.”

He winks, and I bite back a smile.

A few minutes later, I shut off the water and step out, towel wrapped around me, hair dripping. The house is quiet, strangely so. The kids must still be asleep, probably worn out from the farm yesterday. That buys us the rare luxury of time.

I check my phone quickly and immediately read the headline about the Hoolihans being arrested under multiple charges of homicide and embezzlement. Whomever Marin hired didn’t hold back with the charges. I only wish it was worse for them after everything they’ve put people through.

Closing the screen I sigh, wondering what all this means for me. If the fear of retaliation will fizzle away or if it will haunt me until my last breath.

By the time I get to the kitchen, the smell of coffee and frying batter hits me in the best way.

Dean stands at the stove, spatula in hand, shirt still absent, his back flexing as he flips a pancake with practiced ease.

Music hums from the phone resting on the windowsill—something low and sultry. Etta James, maybe.

He turns as I enter, eyes roaming lazily over me in his T-shirt and a pair of borrowed sleep shorts. His smile softens.

“Perfect timing. First batch is done.”

“I could get used to this.”

He hands me a steaming mug of coffee, his fingers brushing mine in that way that makes it hard to focus on anything but touch. Then he leans in and kisses me, a simple press of lips that somehow carries the weight of everything we’ve left unsaid.

As I reach for a plate, his hand circles my wrist.

“Dance with me.”

I blink. “Now?”

He pulls me close, setting the plate aside. “Right now.”

And maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the steam still clinging to my skin or the way his eyes soften when they look at me like I’m something fragile and rare, but I say yes.

His hand slides to my waist, the other holding mine gently, thumb brushing back and forth. We sway, slow and easy. The world melts away until it’s just the two of us in the soft morning light, dancing barefoot in the kitchen like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Dean leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “You know… I’ve never wanted anything the way I want this.”

My chest tightens. “Dancing?”

“This. Us. All of it.”

I rest my head against his shoulder, letting myself fall into the rhythm of the music.

Into the quiet certainty of his arms. Dean’s hand slides around my waist, pulling me closer until barely a whisper is between us.

The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio.

I can’t remember the last time I danced like this.

Maybe never. At least not in a kitchen with a man like Dean, barefoot, sleepy-eyed, and smiling at me like I’m his entire world.

His palm presses gently against the small of my back, fingers flexing like he’s memorizing the shape of me. “You know,” he murmurs, eyes locked with mine, “you’ve got a bad habit of making this place feel like home.”

I swallow hard, heart thumping with a rhythm that has nothing to do with the song. “It’s the pancakes,” I joke weakly, but my voice cracks at the edges.

He chuckles, deep and low. “It’s everything. It’s you.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. Not without giving myself away.

So I lean my head against his chest again and let the music carry us.

It’s slow and sweet, the kind of moment I didn’t realize I was desperate for until I was standing in the middle of it.

The sunlight slips in through the windows, casting golden beams across the floor like something out of a dream.

We keep swaying, and it’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. More than sex. More than whispered promises. This is real. Uncomplicated. Safe.

Eventually, the music fades into another song, something more upbeat, but neither of us moves to break the spell. His hand stays at my waist. Mine stays on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

“You should probably finish breakfast,” I murmur.

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “You saying you’re not going to let me twirl you around the kitchen like a 1950s housewife?”

I laugh, but the sound is breathless. “Only if you wear a frilly apron.”

His grin is boyish and mischievous. “Deal.”

He spins me once, and I stumble slightly, laughing harder now. When I land against his chest again, his hands hold me a little tighter, his mouth dropping to my ear.

“You’re everything I didn’t know I needed, Lila.”

I press my lips to his jaw, a featherlight kiss. “Right back at you, Dean.”

And I realize I can’t live my life waiting for the unknown. I need to live in the here and now, with the man who’s quickly stolen my heart.