Page 97 of At First Flight
Dr. Rowley.
My thumb hesitates over the notification before I swipe to open the message.
Lila, we’d love to offer you the two-year research grant position. The lab at Chicago Biotech is thrilled at the possibility of working with you. Let us know soon and with any questions you may have.
My lungs don’t seem to know what to do with air. I sink onto the edge of the couch, blinking at the email, reading it again and again as if the words might shift, soften, or vanish.
It’s everything I said I wanted. Everything I spent years building toward. A prestigious lab, cutting-edge technology, a chance to make a name for myself in the field I’ve bled for.
But now…
I stare out the front window. The sun’s low, casting long golden shadows across the lawn. I can hear the wind chimes tinkling softly from the back deck.
And just like that, the lab offer feels… less urgent.
I trace the edge of my phone, heartbeat tapping out a rhythm I don’t recognize. This offer is a dream. But it’s a dream I had before I knew what it felt like to be here. To be needed. To be seen.
Dean makes it so easy to believe in myself again, and not because he fills me with empty flattery. He sees the pieces of me I thought were too messy or too complicated to be loved and tells me I’m enough anyway. More than all those parts Prescott gaslit me into thinking were too much. They’re enough for Dean.
He took the kids to the farm today, just so I could have a quiet house to write, apply for grants, and catch up on research. He left a cup of coffee beside my laptop, and a folder of possible opportunities to look into, each one annotated with little notes in his handwriting.
That’s who he is. He doesn’t just support me, he champions me. And that support? That attention? It makes me question everything I thought I knew. Because how do you walk away from a life that finally feels like it fits?
I don’t make any decisions. Not tonight. Maybe not for a few days. But I tuck the phone away and press my palm to my chest, right over the place where my heart keeps whispering, stay.
But wanting something and believing you deserve it are two different battles. And I’ve only just begun fighting mine.
The screen door creaks open around noon, and all that peace and stillness shatters like a dropped dish.
“LILA!” Evelyn yells, a streak of dark hair and sticky fingers flying into my legs. “Did you know goats can SCREAM?”
I crouch to hold her, her little arms wrapping tight around my neck. “That sounds terrifying.”
“Rowan said I’m part goat now!” she adds, like it’s an honor. “Because I climbed a fence and yelled a lot.”
I laugh, tears pricking unexpectedly at the edges of my eyes.
Oliver flops into the entryway behind her, shirt smudged with dirt, arms flung wide. “Rowan made me pull weeds. With myhands. Like ananimal.”
“Tragic,” I say, ruffling his hair. “Shall I call Ms. Claire?” I ask referring to my mom.
He grunts already distracted by something else.
Dean appears behind them, holding a pie box and looking criminal in a wrinkled, light blue button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows and those stupid perfect forearms. His smile is hesitant, like he’s waiting to see what version of me he’s walking into.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
That’s all. But it carries so much.
He steps close, not touching, but there’s gravity in the air between us. A silent pull.
His knuckles graze mine when he hands over the pie box. Not an accident. Not anymore.
He leans in then, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing just under my eye. His touch is reverent, tender.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you every second since I met you,” he murmurs.
