Page 124 of At First Flight
It’s warm out. Lazy summer heat. And the kind of quiet that feels earned.
“I have something to ask you,” she says finally, voice soft.
I brace myself. “Okay.”
“I think I want to say yes to the local offer. The science coordinator position for the entire school district.” She mentioned it weeks ago while still conducting research at the high school laboratory.
“Yeah?” I ask, voice hoarse.
She nods. “Yeah.”
I don’t say anything. I just reach for her hand, link our fingers together, and bring it to my lips.
She leans her head against my shoulder. “It’s not just for you. Or the kids. I need you to know that.”
“I do.”
“It’s for me. Because for the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe.”
I close my eyes and hold her hand a little tighter. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
She turns and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Then let’s build something here. Not perfect. But ours.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Because I don’t need perfect. I just need her.
Chapter Twenty-six – Lila
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 likelack of availabilityandemotional 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.
