Page 60 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

The email stares back at me like it knows every secret I’ve tried to bury.

The cursor blinks beside my message, a quiet pulse that mirrors the rhythm in my chest. I’ve typed the words at least six times now, maybe more, and deleted them just as quickly. Not because I don’t know what I want. But because admitting it, putting it in writing, and pressing send… makes it real.

Fully funded. Prestigious. Career-defining.

The kind of opportunity that people fight their whole lives to get. The kind of dream that used to keep me up at night with excitement and hunger. That glittery version of success I used to chase like it could save me from myself.

And now?

Now it feels like an echo of someone I used to be.

Especially with the news of the Hoolihans trial gaining worldwide coverage.

Marin made sure the family would be locked away for a very long time.

She hasn’t needed my deposition so far, but I’m certain it’s coming.

And I’m ready. With Dean by my side, I’m prepared for anything.

I hover the mouse over the send button one last time, my other hand resting lightly on the kitchen counter where Evelyn’s butterfly jar sits beside the toaster. I glance at the pale green chrysalis hanging from the twig, still and silent, holding its breath like me.

Maybe we’re both about to break free.

With a soft exhale, I click.

Thank you for the opportunity, but I respectfully decline.

The moment the message disappears from my screen, something inside me exhales. Something deep and tight and aching. Like I’ve finally loosened the last knot tethering me to the life I thought I needed in order to be worthy.

My phone buzzes before I can even take a sip of my now-cold coffee. I don’t have to check the screen to know who it is.

Ashvi:

So?? Me:

I turned it down. Officially. Ashvi:

HOLY SHIT. Ashvi:

You just broke up with a prestigious fellowship. How do you feel? Me:

Lighter. Ashvi:

Like breathing again? Me:

Exactly that. Me:

I took the science coordinator job here. Ashvi:

You’re a small-town goddess now. Own it. Me:

It feels weirdly… good. Ashvi:

I’m proud of you. For real. Me:

Thank you. For pushing me. For knowing before I did. Ashvi:

Always. Now go kiss that hot man and make a vinegar-and-baking-soda volcano with those babies. Me:

Deal. ????

I smile and set my phone aside, letting the silence of the house settle around me like a soft quilt. It's the kind of quiet that only comes in the pause between big choices and bigger beginnings, the kind that feels like peace.

The butterfly jar on the windowsill catches my eye again.

But this time, something’s different. The chrysalis is cracking.

I lean closer, holding my breath, and watch as the delicate shell begins to peel away. One wing, still crumpled and damp, pushes through the opening, followed by another.

“Evelyn!” I call, voice barely above a whisper but loud enough to send her little feet pounding through the hallway. “Come quick, sweetheart.”

She barrels into the kitchen seconds later, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed. “Is it happening?!”

I nod, crouching to her level. “Just in time.”

We sit on the floor together, shoulder to shoulder, watching in awe as the butterfly slowly emerges, stretching its wings wide under the filtered morning light. Monarch orange. Veined in black. Fragile and fierce.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, eyes wide.

“So are you,” I whisper back, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, swallowing the emotion that swells too fast to contain.

She looks up at me with that gap-toothed smile I swear could light a thousand rooms, and something inside me just settles. Clicks into place like it was always meant to be here.

“Can we let her go now?” she asks, eyes still on the butterfly.

“Not yet. Her wings need time to dry.” I press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “But soon.”

Later that afternoon, I’m outside, barefoot on the back deck, watching Oliver and Evelyn chase each other through the grass with plastic swords and a jar of bubble solution that’s already half empty. The sky is the most perfect blue, like it was painted just for us.

Dean steps outside, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

His shirt clings to him in all the right places, hair a little damp, as if he just stepped out of the shower.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me for a second.

Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or just another thing he’s scared to lose.

“You look like someone who just conquered the world,” he says finally, his voice low and warm.

I lift a shoulder. “Maybe I did.”

He walks toward me, stops just shy of touching, like he’s asking without words. I lean into him, fitting under his arm like I belong there. Because I do.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.

I hum. “I turned it down.”

“The lab?”

I nod.

His silence stretches long, but not heavy. Just thoughtful. Then he lets out a slow breath. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” I say truthfully. “I thought I’d feel lost without it. But instead… I feel found.”

He looks down at me, something bright flickering in his eyes. “You don’t need it to be extraordinary. You already are.”

I press my forehead to his chest, breathing him in—cedar, summer, home. He tilts my chin up with one finger and then he kisses me. Soft and slow. Like a promise and a prayer all wrapped into one.

That evening, we gather around the quilt in the backyard. A picnic dinner spread between us, the kids catching butterflies and pretending they’re wizards in a magical forest. Evelyn darts back to the deck, holding up the jar with the butterfly, now dry and ready.

“Can we let her go now?” she asks, eyes round and reverent.

I nod, standing beside her.

Dean moves to my other side, one hand resting gently on the small of my back. “Want to do the honors?” he asks softly.

Evelyn nods and opens the lid slowly, carefully. For a beat, nothing happens, then, with one delicate flutter, the butterfly takes flight, rising into the golden dusk like she knows exactly where she’s going.

The kids cheer.

Dean leans in, whispering, “She found her wings.”

“Yeah,” I say, heart full to bursting. “She really did.”

And I know we weren’t just talking about the butterfly. We were talking about me.

The sun dips lower, casting orange hues across the backyard as the scent of grilled meat and sizzling corn wafts through the air.

Oliver’s and Evelyn's laughter rings out as they chase fireflies, their bare feet dancing across the grass.

I sit on the quilt, a glass of sweet tea in hand, watching the scene unfold with a heart full of contentment.

Dean approaches, a soft smile playing on his lips. He settles beside me, his presence warm and grounding.

"You did something brave today," he says, his voice low and sincere.

I glance at him, the weight of the day's decision settling in.

He reaches out, his fingers intertwining with mine. "Are you sure about this? The job, staying here… me?"

I turn to face him fully, searching his eyes. "I'm sure. For the first time in a long time, I'm not running toward something that looks good on paper. I'm standing still, choosing what feels right in my bones."

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "That's all I've ever wanted—for you to choose it. Not because of me."

I smile, my heart swelling. "It's not because of you. It's because of me. And them. And the way this town, this house, this life makes me feel like the best version of myself."

We sit in comfortable silence, watching the children twirl and laugh.

Realizing that this place, this man, these children didn’t just fill the cracks.

They made something entirely new. Something stronger.

I’m not running anymore. I’m rooted. And as the wind shifts and a butterfly lifts into the sky, free and sure, I know the truth deep in my bones.

This is not the end. This is where everything begins.