The Lawsuit’s Looming Threat
13
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LENA'S POV
The air smells faintly of salt and damp wood as Noah and I approach the docks under the cover of a cloudy morning. The ground beneath my boots is slick from the rain, and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the pier fills the space between us. This place feels different now—less like the gritty, working-class hub I remember and more like the epicenter of something dangerous.
Noah’s stride is confident, purposeful, his shoulders squared as though the weight of the world rests on them. I match his pace, the steady rhythm of our steps a grounding force against the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in my head.
“We have to make this count,” I say, glancing at him.
“We will,” he replies, his tone sharp and unwavering.
The plan is simple—convince Dan Porter, the port manager, that we’re not the enemy. The manifests we found at the warehouse, coupled with the proof Noah uncovered about altered supply chains, should be enough to sway him. But there’s no room for error. If Porter doesn’t believe us, we’ll lose any access to the docks, and with it, any hope of getting ahead of Reyes’s schemes.
As we approach the small office at the edge of the pier, Porter steps out, his weathered face a mask of suspicion. His eyes narrow as they land on us.
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you two again so soon,” he says, folding his arms.
“We didn’t come to cause trouble,” Noah says, his voice steady. “We came to clear the air.”
Porter doesn’t look convinced, but he steps aside, motioning for us to follow him into the cramped office. The room smells faintly of coffee and engine oil, and a lone ceiling fan creaks above us.
I set the stack of documents on his desk, the pages spread out like a puzzle waiting to be solved. “We found these in the warehouse,” I say, keeping my tone calm but firm. “They show altered shipping records—missing manifests, discrepancies in the cargo. And they all lead back to the same operation.”
Porter glances at the papers, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“It’s not about you,” Noah interjects. “But you’re the gatekeeper here. You’ve seen the trucks, the shipments. You know what’s going on better than anyone.”
Porter leans back in his chair, his gaze darting between us and the papers. “And what am I supposed to do with this? Take it to the council? They’ll laugh me out of the room.”
“No one’s asking you to take the fall,” I say quickly. “We’re just asking for your help. Let us keep digging. Let us figure out what’s really going on before this town gets swallowed whole.”
For a long moment, the room is silent except for the hum of the fan. Porter’s fingers drum against the desk, his brow furrowed in thought.
Finally, he exhales sharply, leaning forward. “I’ll give you until the end of the week,” he says, his voice low. “But if you don’t come up with something solid by then, I’m shutting this down and taking everything to the council.”
Relief floods through me, but I keep my expression neutral. “That’s all we need.”
Porter nods, his gaze hard. “Don’t make me regret this.”
By the time we leave the docks, the clouds have parted just enough for a pale sliver of sunlight to break through. The tension that’s been sitting heavy on my chest feels a little lighter, the first taste of victory sweetening the air.
“That went better than I expected,” I admit, glancing at Noah.
He gives a small smile, the kind that softens the edges of his otherwise stoic demeanor. “For once, I agree.”
We walk side by side along the waterfront, the sound of seagulls overhead mingling with the distant hum of machinery. The weight of everything we’ve been fighting against hasn’t disappeared, but for the first time, it feels manageable—like we might actually have a chance.
Without thinking, I stop and turn to face him. “Thank you,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.
His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”
“For not giving up,” I reply. “For fighting for this town, for the clinic… for me.”
Something shifts in his expression, and I catch the flicker of something darker in his eyes. The blue of his gaze deepens, an intensity there that makes my breath catch in my throat. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says quietly, his voice rougher than usual, laced with something that I can’t name but feel deep in my chest. “This fight is yours just as much as it’s mine.”
I’m not sure if it’s his words or the way he says them, but the weight of the moment hangs between us, and I feel it—like a magnet, pulling me in closer to him. Before I can respond, he steps closer, his presence enveloping me. The space between us disappears entirely, and I can feel the heat of his body radiating against mine. My pulse quickens, and I can’t help but notice the subtle flex of his muscles beneath his shirt as he moves, the way his broad chest rises and falls with every breath, steady and controlled. It’s all too much—too close, too real—and I feel a dangerous thrill run through me.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly his arms are around me, pulling me into him. The warmth of his embrace consumes me, and for a moment, I lean into him without thinking, the solid strength of his body grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. His scent surrounds me—deep, earthy, with the faintest hint of rain from his soaked jacket—and it’s all I can do not to close my eyes and lose myself in him.
It’s not a kiss, not yet, but the intimacy between us feels heavier than anything I’ve ever known. My skin tingles where his fingers graze the small of my back, just below the hem of my shirt, the touch sending a ripple of heat straight through me. The steady rise and fall of his chest against mine is a rhythm I can’t escape, and I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, strong and alive beneath my fingertips, as if our bodies are in sync even without the words.
The world narrows to just us—just this moment—where nothing else matters. Every inch of my body craves more of him, more of the warmth, the heat, the magnetic pull between us. My fingers itch to touch him, to feel the solid muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, to explore every part of him that’s been so carefully hidden.
But then, just as quickly as the moment began, a sharp whistle cuts through the air, shattering the fragile bubble we’ve created. The sound of laughter drifts over from a group of dockworkers unloading a nearby shipment, their voices carrying on the breeze like a cold splash of reality.
Noah’s arms fall away from me, and he clears his throat, his posture suddenly rigid, his hand falling to his side. The loss of his touch leaves me feeling exposed, like I’ve been pulled too close to the edge of something I’m not ready for. “We should get back,” he says, his voice lower than usual, rough with something unspoken.
I nod, my heart still racing, my body still humming with the heat of his embrace. But as I turn away, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever just happened between us isn’t over. It’s only just begun.
My chest tightens as he steps away, leaving behind the faintest trace of warmth where his hands had rested. “Yeah,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended. “We’ve got work to do.”
We start walking, the sound of our footsteps mingling with the distant crash of waves and the calls of seagulls. The silence isn’t awkward, but it’s heavy—charged with all the things left unsaid. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, taking in the hard line of his jaw, the way his brows knit together in thought. He looks like he’s still in the moment, still holding onto the intensity of what just happened.
And so am I.
I tell myself to focus on the fight ahead, on the mountains of work waiting for us back at the clinic, but my thoughts betray me. They spiral out of control, drifting back to the way Noah’s arms felt around me. The warmth of his body pressed against mine, the solid strength of him, anchoring me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I can still feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the deep, steady rise and fall of his chest against mine, as if his body was a silent promise I couldn’t ignore. And his gaze—God, his gaze. The way his blue eyes locked onto mine, intense and searching, like I was the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing that mattered in that moment.
I wish he hadn’t stopped.
The thought hits me like a wave crashing over me, overwhelming, consuming, and I nearly stumble under its weight. If he had kissed me just then, I wouldn’t have stopped him. Not this time. I would have let him. Every inch of me was screaming for it, aching to feel his lips on mine, to close that gap between us that seemed to stretch wider the more I thought about it. But instead, he pulled away, and the moment fractured like glass. Now, the silence between us feels deafening.
I press my lips together, trying to keep myself together, but my steps falter ever so slightly. It’s impossible to pretend I didn’t feel it—the pull, the connection that’s been building between us. The truth is undeniable now—something between us has shifted, like the tide changing with no way to turn back. And pretending it hasn’t, pretending that everything is still the same, feels just as impossible as stopping the ocean from crashing against the shore.
I can’t ignore it anymore. The need for him is a fire inside me, one I don’t know how to put out, and I can feel it in every step I take toward the clinic, in every breath I take. And I know, deep down, I don’t want to.
We reach the edge of the pier, the clinic’s familiar outline coming into view. He slows, turning slightly as if to say something, but the words never come. Instead, his gaze meets mine, a flicker of something unspoken passing between us.
I look away first, the heat rising in my cheeks as I force myself to take the next step forward. The space between us feels unbearably fragile, like the moment could crack wide open if I so much as breathe too deeply.
But as we approach the clinic doors, the thought lingers, warming me like an ember: next time, I won’t stop it. Next time, I’ll let the tide pull me under.
By late afternoon, the clinic is alive in a way it hasn’t been in months. Word spread fast after I reached out to a handful of families, and now the waiting room hums with quiet energy. People have come not just for advice or treatment but for connection, for hope.
I move between them, offering advice on everything from herbal remedies to stress relief techniques. For a moment, it feels like I’m back in New York—only this time, the pace is slower, the interactions more personal.
A mother with a fussy toddler smiles as I hand her a balm for the little one’s teething pain, her gratitude shining in her eyes. An older man who worked with my grandmother years ago asks about natural ways to ease his arthritis, his skepticism melting as I show him the salve I’ve prepared.
And then there’s the young woman sitting near the window, her shoulders hunched as though she’s bracing herself for bad news. Her name is Clara, and I remember her from the days after my grandmother’s funeral—one of the quiet mourners who had slipped away before I could speak to her.
When I sit beside her, she looks up, her eyes rimmed with fatigue. “I didn’t know if I should come,” she admits. “But my neighbor said you were helping people.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say gently. “What’s on your mind?”
As she speaks, her story unfolds—a tale of mounting medical bills, a misdiagnosis that nearly cost her everything, and the quiet desperation of trying to keep her family afloat. It’s a story I’ve heard too often lately, a story that always seems to circle back to the same underlying issues.
I listen, offering what advice I can, but more importantly, I let her feel seen. By the time she leaves, her shoulders are a little less tense, and she grips the small pouch of remedies I’ve given her like it’s a lifeline.
Noah appears in the doorway as the last patient filters out, his arms crossed as he leans against the frame. “You’ve been busy,” he says again, this time with a note of admiration.
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s nothing compared to what my grandmother used to do.”
“It’s exactly what your grandmother used to do,” he counters, stepping into the room. “She built this place on connections like that. On trust.”
The words land heavier than I expect, a mix of pride and something deeper blooming in my chest. I glance at him, his expression thoughtful as he surveys the now-empty clinic.
“This isn’t just about fighting Reyes,” I say, breaking the silence. “It’s about rebuilding. Giving people something to hold onto.”
“And you’re doing that,” he says, his voice low but steady. “In a way no one else could.”
For a moment, we just stand there, the weight of the day settling around us. And in that quiet space, I realize something: the fight isn’t just for the clinic or the town. It’s for the connections that make it all matter.
The clinic feels quieter than usual when we return, the low hum of the rain outside amplifying the stillness. I can’t tell if it’s the weight of what just happened at the docks, the tension still lingering in the air between us, or the warmth that clings to my skin from Noah’s hands. The memory of his touch is like a spark—his fingers tracing the small of my back, the heat of his body pressing so close to mine. It’s still with me, still alive beneath the surface, and I can't shake the way his presence has burrowed under my defenses, making everything feel heightened, like every glance, every breath, every shift in the air between us means something more.
I head toward the kitchen, more to distract myself than because I’m hungry. The comfort of routine helps—pulling out a pan, slicing vegetables, the rhythmic action of boiling pasta—but no matter how hard I try to focus on the task, I’m acutely aware of Noah’s every move. I can feel his gaze on me, like a constant pull, his presence so strong that it fills the space around us. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his broad chest expanding with every slow breath. The way his body moves, the way his posture is so relaxed but still powerful—it’s magnetic. Everything about him is commanding, and it takes all my willpower not to give in to the urge to walk over and close the distance between us.
“You cook?” he asks, his tone light, almost teasing, but there’s a depth to his voice that tells me he’s still thinking about something else—about us, maybe.
“Sometimes,” I reply, not looking at him, focusing on the vegetables in front of me, but my pulse quickens as I feel the weight of his gaze. “It’s not gourmet or anything, but it’s edible.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and I can almost feel the vibration of it in my chest. “Edible is an improvement over what I’ve been living on lately.”
I glance at him over my shoulder, and the sight of him standing there, so effortlessly strong, his shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders, the lines of his body so defined it’s like he was carved from stone, makes my breath catch. That damn pull is back again, stronger than before. He’s so close, and yet, I can’t quite close the gap. Not yet.
“Let me guess. Instant noodles and takeout?” I tease, trying to ignore the way my body responds to the sight of him.
He raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a grin that does something to my insides. “Something like that,” he replies, the warmth of his smile doing nothing to cool the heat that’s building between us.
But even as I joke, I can’t stop thinking about him—about the way his body moved when he stood so close to me earlier, about the strength in his arms when he held me, about how much I wanted to feel him pressed against me again. The tension is unbearable, and I wonder if he feels it too, if he’s as aware of the space between us as I am.
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. Between the center and everything else, I don’t exactly have time to play chef.”
“Well, tonight you’re getting something homemade,” I say, pouring sauce into the pan and stirring. The aroma fills the kitchen, a comforting blend of garlic, tomatoes, and herbs. “You might even survive it.”
“High stakes,” he says, and I can feel his smirk even without looking. “I like a little danger.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flutters at the playful note in his voice. There’s something about the way he’s watching me—like I’m more than just the person standing between him and a plate of pasta. It’s disarming, but it also makes me want to lean into it, just a little.
“So,” he says after a moment, his tone softening. “What made you start cooking?”
I pause, the wooden spoon resting against the edge of the pan. “My grandmother, mostly. She was always in the kitchen when I was a kid, making teas, stews, tinctures. It was like magic to me—the way she could take all these simple things and turn them into something comforting, something healing.”
He nods, his expression thoughtful. “She must have been incredible.”
“She was,” I say quietly, the familiar ache of loss tightening my chest. “She believed in helping people in every way she could. Cooking was just one part of that.”
The silence stretches, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels… connected. Like he understands, even without saying so.
“You remind me of her,” he says, his voice so low I almost miss it.
I freeze for a heartbeat, the words hitting me harder than I expect. “What?”
“You care,” he says, stepping closer. “Not just about the clinic or this town, but about the people in it. You want to fix things, to make them better. It’s not just what you do. It’s who you are.”
His words unravel something inside me, and when I meet his gaze, the intensity there nearly takes my breath away. “Noah…”
He shakes his head, like he’s shaking off the weight of his own emotions. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice steadier than I feel. “It’s okay.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged, like one wrong step could ignite something neither of us is ready for. My pulse quickens, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, the heat radiating from his body, the way his eyes search mine like he’s daring me to step closer.
The sound of the sauce bubbling over snaps me out of it. I turn quickly, reaching for the stove and muttering, “Dinner’s ready.”
“Saved by the sauce,” he says with a small laugh, stepping back but not too far.
I dish out two plates and carry them to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. He follows, sitting across from me, and for a while, we eat in silence, the clink of forks against plates the only sound. But the tension doesn’t go away. If anything, it deepens, weaving itself into every glance, every unspoken word.
“This is good,” he says eventually, breaking the quiet. “You’ve officially outdone instant noodles.”
“High praise,” I tease, but my voice comes out softer than I intended.
His smile is small but genuine, and it does something to me I can’t quite explain. “Lena,” he says after a moment, his tone turning serious. “Do you ever think about what happens after this? After Reyes?”
I hesitate, caught off guard by the question. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve been so focused on getting through this, I haven’t really thought about what comes next.”
He nods, as if he understands. “But you’re staying, right? In Portside Bay?”
I glance down at my plate, the question catching me off guard. “I don’t know,” I say again, but this time the words feel heavier. “There’s a lot to figure out. A lot to fix.”
“You’d be good for this town,” he says quietly. “And I think this town would be good for you.”
I look up, and the sincerity in his eyes makes my breath catch. “Noah…”
He leans forward slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “You don’t have to decide now. But if you stay… I’ll be here.”
The room feels too small, too warm, the weight of his words pressing down on me in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I just nod, letting the moment hang between us, unspoken but undeniable.
The sound of his phone vibrating on the counter breaks the spell. He glances at it, his expression tightening. “I should check that,” he says, standing and walking toward the counter.
As he answers the call, I take a deep breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions swirling inside me. But one thought lingers, refusing to be ignored: if he had leaned in just a little closer, I wouldn’t have stopped him.