Chapter 12 #2
"Think about it, Allison," Ryan says. "We'll set up logistics. You've more than earned it."
When Ryan walks away I feel the line between us again, the thing we have to decide by the tick of the clock. Nolan steps close and tucks my fingers into his, a small anchored moment.
We spend hours on the terrace talking through what guardianship actually means—not just the romantic notion of protecting artifacts, but the daily responsibility of balancing spiritual obligations with practical security work.
The weight of it should be daunting but discussing it together makes it feel manageable.
"I love you, Allison. I'm not asking for you to return that sentiment or a vow until you're sure," he says, "but I want tomorrow with you. And the next day and the day after that. I just want to know I can wake up when you do."
Breathe, I tell myself. This is not a trap. This is not danger. This is a man asking for time in a way that does not demand I give everything I have. I can do time. I can give tomorrow. For once the word promise feels possible.
Exhaling, I say, "I love you too... at least I think that's what I'm feeling. I know I don't want to wake up without you either." I say the words slowly because I mean them. "I can promise you tomorrow and the day after that."
But there's more than just our relationship to discuss. I still hold the mask, and I can feel the ancient spirits within it—no longer hungry or hostile, but watchful, patient. They've accepted our guardianship, but that comes with responsibilities neither of us fully understands yet.
"The mask," I say, looking down at the golden artifact in my hands. "What do we do with it now?"
Nolan takes it carefully, his fingers tracing the symbols with reverence.
"The irony is that Dreschner didn't believe in any of it.
He thought he was just staging theater. But when he performed blood rituals with an authentic Calusa artifact, when he channeled genuine historical trauma through sacred symbols.
.. he accidentally did what real shamans once did intentionally.
He opened a doorway he never believed existed. "
"So the spirits are real, but his methods were fake?"
"Exactly. He was a fraud who stumbled into truth.
The spirits responded not to his belief, but to the authentic elements he unknowingly activated—the blood, the gold, the ritual space, the accumulated spiritual energy from the masquerade.
" His voice carries the quiet certainty of a man who has found his calling.
"Now we honor the trust they've placed in us. Together."
Ryan's offer suddenly makes more sense—the traveling exhibition, the permanent security assignment, the chance to work together protecting cultural treasures.
It wasn't just about the money or the career opportunity.
It was about destiny, about accepting a role that maybe we were always meant to play.
"The spirits," I ask. "Can you still sense them?"
Nolan nods. "They're at peace now. They have purpose again, guardians who understand their true nature. But they're also watching, Allison. If we fail in our responsibilities, if we let greed or carelessness endanger what they're meant to protect..."
"They'll find other guardians," I finish.
"Or they'll take matters into their own hands."
The weight of that responsibility settles on both of us, but it doesn't feel burdensome.
It feels right, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.
We were brought together by this mask, by forces older than either of us understood.
Now we have the chance to honor that connection properly.
We talk and the words spill out the way they do when danger has taught you what you cannot waste time on.
I tell him about missions that were supposed to be quick and became blood notes on dry leaves.
I tell him about faces that return to me when the world falls silent, people I lost and can never bring back.
I tell him about taking responsibility because it was easier than grief.
He listens without flinching. Then he tells me he remembers pieces of a life before the museum catalogues and the polite lectures.
He tells me about orders, about being given a man's life to trust and failing at it once and learning to be more deliberate.
He tells me he doesn't want the easy escape of something casual.
He wants someone who will stand in the mess and chaos of our combined history.
Our conversation is not pretty. It is the unvarnished truth that unravels the quieter lies we tell ourselves. We test boundaries. We trade truths until the edges blunt and the center is bare and real.
After this honesty, we find our bodies again.
This is not a frantic fold of hands and lips.
It is slow and intimate, the kind of closeness that sutures rather than rips.
He touches me with reverence, paying attention to the map of scars both obvious and not.
I let him because this is trust in action.
The morning light is spilling into the main dining room as we enter.
Ryan brings up logistics and the practicalities of a shipment and staff and a statement that needs to be released about Dreschner and announcing the collection, its opening in London and going on tour.
Nolan's name goes into a document for London, tentative details to be hammered out, which makes something like a future tangible.
At a quiet moment, Nolan slips me a note. It's small, bureaucratic, but it's a doorway. "You'll come?" he asks without the weight of a demand.
I read the lines and think of the history attached, and I imagine the life it might open. London is a return to a place I call home, a city as wired into me as duty. A job there would be sensible shorthand for a life still in motion. But the better question is who I'm doing it with.
"I'll go," I say. I take his hand, not because I owe him an answer, but because I want to choose. "If that's what you want."
He squeezes my fingers and looks up at Ryan before kissing me, quickly and softly. "Then we're on."
Later, we pack and leave. The drive back to the plane is brief and silent. Ryan clasps our shoulders, his gratitude steady in a way that doesn't need rhetoric. Saltmoor already seems to be folding back into itself, but the mark of the night is indelible on both of us.
At the private airstrip, waiting under the blue sky, I look at Nolan and feel the impossible: that I can allow this; that I can build a life that contains him. He slides his hand over mine and the smallness of the gesture matters more than any declaration.
We do not promise forever. No one can, not honestly. But we promise effort. We promise to show up for the next sunrise. And that's not nothing.
On the plane, I rest my head on his shoulder in the rarest of refuges. He hums softly. When I close my eyes, I do not see the faces that haunt me. I see the way he holds me, the steadying press of his hand, the how of the nights to come.
Back in London, life is different and certain in new ways.
There are exhibitions to plan, reports to write, and a hundred tiny crises.
There will be nights when I'm required elsewhere and days when his work takes him to archives.
There will be compromises. We will fail at some of them. We will repair others.
But when dawn breaks the next day, he is still there. When the storm comes later, and it will, I know I will not stand alone. He won't either.
On a small terrace at dawn overlooking the Thames, our silhouettes are outlined against a city that smells of rain and possibility.
Nolan reaches up and kisses me with a hunger softened into devotion.
I answer in kind because I can. I do not promise forever, but I promise tomorrow, and for now, that is enough.
But this morning, holding Nolan as the first light touches the Thames, I know we've found something more valuable than any treasure: partnership that transcends the boundaries between life and death, love that bridges cultures and centuries, and purpose that will guide us through whatever shadows lie ahead.
In the pre-dawn darkness, I feel the mask's presence even though it's secured in the museum's vault.
The spirits within it rest quietly now, their ancient vigil shared with guardians who understand both worlds.
Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new artifacts that need protection, new threats that require both tactical expertise and spiritual wisdom.
The blood remembers, just as the warrior told me. And now, finally, so do we.
Ready for some more Pelican Point? Click here to read Curveballs in Pelican Point
He left with a dream. Now he’s back with a niece, a busted shoulder, and a second chance he never saw coming.
After an injury ends his major league career, Logan Maddox returns to Pelican Point to raise his four-year-old niece and revive the town’s struggling minor league team.
The last thing he expects is to move in next door to Heather Winslow, the sassy librarian, who used to ace every pop quiz and once held his heart without even knowing it.
Heather hasn’t forgotten the town’s golden boy who left without a backward glance.
Now he’s back, with a kid, and zero parenting instincts.
She doesn’t have time for his messy life, but somehow gets drawn in by Violet’s sweet smile, by Cookie, her opinionated corgi who bonds with Violet, and most dangerously, by Logan himself.
What starts as playful bickering turns into late-night talks, community projects, and something that feels dangerously close to home. They never made it work back then, but maybe this time, love is pitching them a second chance.