Page 102 of At First Flight
Like I’ve already made a home without realizing it.
After a day out on the bay in the boat Dean had delivered a week ago, the kids are down again, finally, and the house has returned to that quiet I’ve learned to love. Not empty. Just settled. Lived in.
I step out onto the deck with my wineglass and a blanket, watching the fireflies flicker in the yard. The last orange smudge of sunset glows along the horizon, soft and warm and fading.
Behind me, the screen door creaks, and then Dean’s there, barefoot again, whiskey in hand, his shirt slung over one shoulder.
“Thought I might find you out here,” he says.
I tuck my knees under the blanket and gesture to the empty chair beside me. “Come sit.”
He does, sinking down with a groan. We sit in silence for a while, our breaths syncing with the hum of summer night sounds.
“You okay?” he asks finally.
I nod. “I think so.”
He tilts his head, eyes scanning my face like he knows exactly where my thoughts lie without even trying. “You don’t have to decide anything yet. About staying. About us.”
“I know,” I say quietly, the words fragile but firm. “But I’m not sure I want to leave anymore.”
That earns a small smile from Dean. Not surprise, just hope. Quiet and steady, like he’s been waiting for me to catch up to what he already knows.
“I think…” I pause, the nerves tangling in my throat, sticky and stubborn. “I think I’m starting to believe that this life isn’t borrowed. That it could actually be mine. That maybe I’m allowed to want something soft. Something safe.”
His hand finds mine on the armrest. Warm, steady. Anchoring.
“You are,” he says gently, voice laced with certainty. “And you don’t owe anyone an apology for needing time. Not me. Not yourself.”
I exhale slowly, watching the way our fingers intertwine. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist like he’s memorizing my pulse.
“But I also can’t pretend that I don’t still want to help people,” I admit, turning my gaze toward the railing. The backyard glows in the last stretch of sunlight. “That I don’t want to push the boundaries of science. Contribute something meaningful. I spent years chasing that dream, not because someone told me I should, but because it’s part of who I am.”
He says nothing, just listens.
“I want to stay,” I whisper. “God, I do. I want to wake up to pancake mornings and bedtime cuddles and the way you look at me like I’m already yours. But I also want to make a difference in the world with what I know. I want both, Dean. And for the first time in my life, I’m starting to believe I might be allowed to have both.”
His hand tightens around mine.
“You should have both,” he murmurs. “Anyone who tells you otherwise doesn’t deserve a seat in your life.”
I look at him then, really look. The man who showed up not just for me but for every fractured part of my soul I thought was too tired, too tangled, too late to save. The man who would give me exactly what I wanted, without question, if I would allow him, but understanding enough to know I want to do it all on my own merit. And just like that, the tight knot in my chest loosens.
Because I’m not choosing one dream over the other. I’m just learning how to make room for both.
I squeeze his fingers. “It’s just… I’ve always known what I wanted. A safe, steady path.”
He nods. “I know that feeling.”
“And now, for the first time, I don’t want to run. But I don’t know how to stay, either.”
“You’re already staying,” he says, looking out over the water. “You’re here now.”
We sit in silence again, letting the night settle around us like a secret. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not just surviving anymore. Maybe I’m beginning.
Chapter Twenty-one – Dean
There’s something about early summer mornings in a small town that reminds me of GiGi’s old photographs, faded at the corners, a little too worn, and soft around the edges. The sky hangs low and honey-colored, the trees casting long shadows across the gravel drive. I stand barefoot on the front porch, coffee in hand, while the screen door creaks behind me like it knows I haven’t slept.
