“Because I’m tired of hiding.” He reached across, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You showed me who you really are, Narla. Everything you’ve been carrying. Everything youwere afraid to say. And I don’t want to keep doing that. Not with you.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she leaned across the console, kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, lingering.
“Show me your lighthouse, Sheriff.”
The door protestedwhen he unlocked it, hinges groaning despite the oil he’d applied last month. Wyatt guided her inside with a hand on her lower back, reaching for the flashlight he kept on the shelf near the entrance.
“Watch your step. The floor’s uneven in places.”
The beam of light swept across the storage room—ropes coiled in corners, buoys hanging from hooks, a rusted anchor propped against the far wall. Clutter he’d never bothered to clear away. Camouflage, in case anyone ever found this place.
“You leave it like this on purpose.” Narla’s voice carried a note of amusement. “So it looks abandoned.”
“Thorough to a fault.” He led her past the debris to the spiral staircase at the back. Cast iron, worn smooth by decades of climbing feet. “One hundred twenty-seven steps. I’ve counted.”
“Of course, you have.”
He went first, testing each step out of habit, though he knew the structure was sound. Her footsteps echoed behind him, steady and sure. The rhythm of their ascent filled the narrow column—metal groaning, wind whispering through gaps in the stonework, their breathing synchronizing without conscious effort.
Halfway up, she caught his hand.
He paused, looking back. The flashlight threw shadows across her face, but he could see the question in her expression.
“How did you find this place?”
“My first week as a deputy.” He resumed climbing, her fingers still laced with his. “I was learning the town’s boundaries, mapping the territory. Found the path to the lighthouse and just knew. This was mine. The one place I could be alone without being on guard.”
“Your sanctuary.”
“The only place I’ve ever had that felt like mine.” They’d reached the top. He pushed open the hatch, helped her through into the lamp room. “Watch your head.”
The view hit her visibly.
She sucked in a breath, moving to the glass walls like she’d been pulled there. Haven Shores spread below them in a scatter of lights and shadows—the harbor where fishing boats bobbed at their moorings, the downtown strip with its storefronts dark for the night, the dark line of the forest to the east where his cabin sat hidden among the trees. Above, stars wheeled in an endless spiral, undimmed by the sleeping town below.
The moon hung low over the water, painting a silver path across the waves. In the distance, the dragon-fire-strengthened seawall gleamed faintly—a reminder of the storms this community had already survived.
“Wyatt.” His name came out reverent. “This is?—”
“I know.” He moved to stand behind her, hands settling on her hips. “I’ve watched a hundred sunsets from up here. A thousand storms rolling in from the coast. This view never gets old.”
“And you’ve never shared it with anyone?”
“Never had anyone I wanted to share it with.”
She turned in his arms, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. In the moonlight, her eyes were dark, searching.
“That’s a lot of trust, bringing me here.”
“You’ve earned it.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “You showed me your monsters. Showed me everything you’d been carrying. This”—he gestured at the view—“is nothing compared to that.”
“It’s everything.” Her voice was soft. “This is where you come to be yourself. The real you, without the badge and the walls. Bringing me here…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Wyatt.”
He didn’t have words for what he was feeling. So he kissed her instead.
It started gentle—a soft press of lips, a question, and an answer. But heat built quickly between them, the same explosive chemistry that had nearly set the festival on fire. His hand fisted in her hair. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders. The kiss deepened, went desperate.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard. “We should sit,” he managed. “The walkway—there’s a spot?—”
