Page 59 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

As evening falls, we prepare dinner together, the kitchen filled with the comforting aromas of home-cooked food. The kids chatter about their day, their stories animated and full of wonder.

After dinner, we settle in the living room, the soft glow of the fireplace casting a warm light. Evelyn curls up in my lap, her eyes heavy with sleep, while Oliver leans against his father, a book open in his hands.

Dean reads aloud, his voice steady and soothing, the words weaving a tapestry of imagination and dreams. I watch him, my heart full, knowing that this is where I belong.

Later, after the kids are tucked into bed, we find ourselves back on the deck, the night air cool and crisp. The stars twinkle above, a silent witness to our shared peace.

The evening air is warm and thick with the scent of cut grass and grilled food. It clings to my skin in the most familiar way like childhood summers and everything good that ever came with them.

I’m sitting on the porch swing, legs tucked under me, a glass of wine balanced on one thigh, gazing out onto the bay, watching the water ebb and flow with the tide. Something is sacred about this slice of life. Something that feels like it should be wrapped in glass and protected.

I look over at Dean, and our eyes catch for just a moment. It’s not long, but it’s enough to send my heart skittering against my ribs like it’s never learned rhythm. He still wants me. After everything. He sits beside me. The air between us is full of everything we haven’t said yet.

“I meant it,” I say after a long beat. “What I said in court.”

He turns toward me slowly. “I know.”

My eyes find his. “I didn’t say it for show. Or because I wanted to be the hero. I said it because I believe it. Because I’ve seen it.”

“I know,” he says again, voice rough. “You didn’t have to speak up. But you did.”

Dean looks at me like I’m standing on the edge of something. Something wide and terrifying and beautiful.

And then I lean forward.

“I love you,” I whisper, like it’s the first time I’ve said it. It’s not the first time I’ve said it to a man, but it’s the first time it feels like enough.

He pulls me into him slowly, carefully, like I might vanish if he moves too fast.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against my hair.

And for the first time in a long time, love doesn’t feel like a risk. It feels like a promise.

I don’t know how long we stay like that on the porch.

The wine is forgotten beside us, the cicadas fading into the background.

All I can hear is the sound of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart pressed against my cheek.

For a moment, it feels like time has folded in on itself—like the heartbreak, the uncertainty, the empty spaces I left behind have been smoothed over.

But I know better. I’ve lived long enough to understand that love isn’t the absence of pain. It’s the decision to stay even when it hurts. To fight even when you're tired.

And I think—no, I know—that Dean’s patience did just that.

“I meant what I said,” he tells me, his voice barely above a whisper. “When I said I loved you. I meant it then. I mean it now. I’ll mean it tomorrow.”

I tilt my head just enough to look up at him. “You didn’t hesitate.”

“Didn’t have to.”

A beat of silence passes before I say, “I did. I hesitated. I left.”

“And you came back.”

Those words undo me. My throat bobs as I swallow, and my breath hitches in my chest. “I thought I had to choose between the life I planned and the life I wanted.”

He slides a hand up to my cheek and brushes his thumb over my skin. “And now?”

“Now I know the life I want is here.”

God help me, I don’t think I’ve ever said words that struck deeper. I want him to scoop me into his arms and carry me through every room in this house—building a home in every corner of it. Instead, he presses a kiss to my forehead, trying to anchor the storm of feelings surging through me.

“You want to stay up?” he asks. “We can sit out here for a while.”

I shake my head, eyes warm and tired. “No. I want to go to bed.”

My heart thuds a little harder in my chest. He nods slowly and reaches for my hand.

We walk inside together. No words. Just the rhythm of our steps on old wood, the soft creak of the door, and the weight of everything we’re trying to say without saying it yet.

In the bedroom, he watches as I slip out of my sundress.

Not like it’s a performance. More like I’m shedding the weight of the day.

I grab one of Dean’s old T-shirts from the dresser, the one I used to steal when I first moved in and pulls it over my head.

It falls to my thighs, swallowing me up in something that feels like us.

Dean strips off his shirt and jeans, then climbs into bed beside me. The lights are off, the room bathed in moonlight filtering through the blinds. He reaches for my hand under the blanket, and I tangle my fingers with his.

“I was afraid,” I say softly.

“I know.”

“I didn’t think I could trust myself to want something good.”

“You can.”

I turn to face him, our noses almost touching. “What if I mess it up again?”

He shakes his head. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

And that’s when I kiss him. Not like the sweet and tentative porch kiss. This one is deeper. Hungrier. My fingers slip into his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against my lips because nothing has ever felt this right.

He pulls me into him, his hands tracing the curve of my waist through the fabric of my shirt. My breath catches when he presses me down gently against the mattress, his body settling over mine like we were made to fit this way.

I don’t rush him. And he doesn’t rush me. We take our time rediscovering each other in touches and whispered promises. This isn’t just about heat. It’s about healing. It’s about belonging.

Later, when we’re both wrapped in the quiet hum of each other’s presence, my head resting on his chest, he runs his fingers through my hair and says, “I want more of this.”

I hum. “What part?”

“All of it. Mornings. Bedtime stories. Arguments over grocery lists. I want every damn ordinary moment if it means I get to have them with you.”

I press a kiss to his ribs. “Then we’ll build that. Together.”

I fall asleep holding his hand.