Page 58 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

The courthouse is colder than I expected.

Not just in temperature—though the air-conditioning hums with that sterile, too-clean chill that settles in your bones—but in atmosphere.

The kind that prickles down your spine and makes your skin feel too tight for your body.

I walk slowly down the hallway, the sound of my heels muffled by the thick carpet, the weight of what I’m about to do pressing into my shoulders.

I don’t text him. Don’t call. I don’t need to.

If I told him I was coming, he’d probably try to talk me out of it. Not because he doesn’t want me there, but because he’d think he was protecting me. Dean always wants to carry the burden on his own. Always has. But not today.

Today, I carry it with him.

The courtroom smells like dust and waxed tile, like too many people have sat in these seats with their futures held in the balance. I slip in just as the hearing is beginning. The door clicks shut behind me, and for a second, no one notices. Then Dean turns.

Our eyes lock.

He looks tired yet not broken. He never lets himself fall apart in public, but there are tight lines around his mouth and a tension in the set of his shoulders I haven’t seen before.

He’s sitting beside his attorney, his hands resting flat on the table in front of him, like he’s ready for a fight he doesn’t want to have.

When he sees me, his lips part slightly in surprise. Or maybe even relief.

But it’s the softening of his gaze that undoes me. No smile. No nod. Just that look, the one that says, You came.

I take a seat in the first row behind him, back straight, heart racing. I don’t ask permission. I don’t need it. I’ve earned my place here.

The proceedings start like any other. Formal, procedural, wrapped in so much legal jargon that it feels like a different language. The judge is a sharp-eyed woman with a tidy gray bun and no visible patience for nonsense. She barely glances up as the petitioner’s attorney begins.

Dean’s father sits across from us, perfectly composed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than my car. His lawyer is polished, her voice confident and cool.

“Your Honor, we believe that Mr. Dean Harrington’s current lifestyle poses an unreasonable risk to the long-term development of the minors in question.

While we respect his devotion, he lacks the resources, experience, and community support structure to raise these children alone.

We also question Ms. Genevieve Harrington's state of mind when she signed the will, leaving her children in the guardianship of Mr. Dean Harrington.”

She goes on, layering her argument with phrases like lack of availability and emotional immaturity. At one point, she even pulls out a printed article from two years ago, something tabloid-like that speculates about Dean’s business dealings and his playboy lifestyle.

I want to scream.

Because I’ve seen him sit up all night with a sick child curled against his chest. I’ve seen him kiss scraped knees and burn his fingers making pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. I’ve seen him be more than enough.

I clench my hands in my lap. Don’t move. Don’t blink. Just wait.

When it’s Dean’s turn to speak, he rises slowly. His lawyer doesn’t need to prompt him. He’s not a man who performs. He’s a man who tells the truth.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t make me less of a father.”

His voice is low and steady. There’s a rawness to it like he’s pulled every word from deep inside.

“I’m not perfect. God knows I’ve made mistakes.

But those kids? They’re my life. They were my sister’s life.

They are my every morning, every night, every in-between moment.

And I will fight like hell to keep them safe. ”

There’s a silence in the room when he finishes. A stillness that feels almost sacred.

He sits again, not looking back.

And then, I stand.

“Ma’am?” the judge asks, lifting one brow in a mixture of curiosity and warning.

I clear my throat. “My name is Lila Wright. I’m not family. I’m not here on behalf of the petitioner or the defense, but I work for CBC Nanny Services that Mr. Harrington hired. I’ve been living with Dean and the children for the past few months. I’ve seen the reality behind the accusations.”

The judge hesitates, then nods once. “You may proceed.”

I walk to the front, my heart thudding so loudly I’m sure everyone can hear it. But when I start speaking, my voice doesn’t shake.

“Oliver and Evelyn are happy,” I say. “They are loved. They are safe and well-transitioned. Not because of money. Not because of location or structure or anything else the petitioner has claimed is lacking. But because of Dean.”

I glance over at him. His jaw is tight. His eyes are locked on mine.

“I have watched that man give every piece of himself to those children. He makes sure Evelyn’s night-light doesn’t flicker because she’s scared of the dark.

He plays baseball in the backyard with Oliver even when he’s dead tired from work.

He shows up for them— every single day. And if this court is trying to determine what kind of parent he is, then let me be clear: he’s the kind every child deserves. ”

When I sit back down, I feel Dean watching me, but I don’t turn. I just breathe. And I wait.

The judge calls for a recess. When she returns, her verdict is swift. The petition is denied.

Dean’s father storms out before the gavel even falls. His lawyer doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The judge offers a tight nod, and then it’s done. Just like that, it’s over.

But what settles over the room isn’t relief. Not yet. It’s the weight of finally.

Dean rises slowly. His attorney claps him on the back, and papers shuffle around them. But all he does is look at me. And then he’s in front of me, his arms pulling me close, his hand cupping the back of my head like he’s afraid I might vanish.

He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t need to. His silence says it all.

The courthouse doors close behind us with a definitive thud, sealing away the tension and uncertainty that had filled the room moments before.

The sun outside is blinding, a stark contrast to the dim interior we've just left.

I blink against the light as the reality of what transpired slowly settles in.

Dean walks beside me, his hand finding mine with a familiarity that sends a comforting warmth through me. Neither of us speaks; words feel inadequate to capture the whirlwind of emotions swirling within us. Relief, gratitude, and a lingering apprehension intertwine, creating a tapestry of feelings.

We reach his sports car, and he opens the passenger door for me, his gaze meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. "Thank you," he says, his voice low and earnest.

I shake my head, a soft smile playing on my lips. "You don't have to thank me. I was exactly where I needed to be. My mom dropped me off after grabbing the kids. You should know she and my dad both wanted to be here."

He nods, closing the door gently before walking around to the driver's side. As he starts the engine, a comfortable silence envelops us, the kind that speaks volumes without uttering a single word.

The drive back to his house is quiet. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic passing of trees are the only sounds accompanying us.

I steal glances at him, noting that his jaw is no longer clenched and the tension in his shoulders has eased.

He's still processing, but there's a newfound lightness to him.

Upon arriving, the familiar sight of the house brings a sense of calm. The kids are at their favorite place, the farm, and the house is momentarily still. We enter and Dean heads straight to the kitchen, pulling out two glasses and pouring us each a drink.

He hands me a glass, our fingers brushing briefly, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. We sit at the kitchen island, the sunlight streaming through the windows casting a gilded glow over everything.

"I was terrified," he admits, breaking the silence. "The thought of losing them… it was unbearable."

I reach across the counter, placing my hand over his. "But you didn't. You fought for them, and you won. They know how much you love them."

He nods, his eyes meeting mine. "I couldn't have done it without you."

I squeeze his hand gently. "You were never alone in this." I don’t even have to tell him that the entire town signed a petition for Dean to keep the kids. I had a backup plan.

We sit in silence for a moment, sipping our drinks as the weight of the day's events gradually lift. The front door opening signals the kids' return, their laughter and chatter filling the house.

Evelyn runs into the kitchen, her eyes lighting up when she sees me. "Lila!" she exclaims, throwing her arms around me.

I hug her tightly, my heart swelling with love. "Hey, sweetheart. How was the day with Ms. Claire?"

"Good! We painted butterflies!" she says excitedly, pulling away to show me her paint-splattered hands, then immediately hugging my mom.

Oliver enters next, a shy smile on his face. "Hi, Lila."

"Hi, Oliver," I reply, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Did you have a good day?"

He nods, his eyes flicking to his father. "Dad, is everything okay?"

I cover my smile with my hand. Hearing the kids call him dad never fails to send my heart galloping, just like I know it does for Dean.

Dean kneels, pulling both kids into a hug. "Everything's perfect," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "We're all together, and that's all that matters."

The kids beam, their innocence and joy a balm to the day's earlier stress. We spend the rest of the afternoon in the backyard, the sun casting long shadows as it begins its descent. The children play, their laughter echoing, while Dean and I sit on the deck, watching them with contentment.