24. Coming Home
Chapter twenty-four
Coming Home
Maya
Isat on the overstuffed chair in my living room wearing jeans and one of Ethan’s sweatshirts. It was the one he'd left at my cottage two weeks ago, the one I'd definitely not been sleeping in every night like some kind of romance novel cliché.
Okay, fine. I'd been sleeping in it every night. It smelled like him and I was emotionally vulnerable. Sue me.
Actually, please don't sue me. I was already being sued quite enough, thank you.
I was trying to read, but the words kept blending together, and I kept checking my phone every few seconds. I was willing him to call me again. Even bad news would be better than being unsure.
At around 11:00, Headlights appeared in my driveway, and my heart did this ridiculous flutter thing that would have embarrassed me if anyone could see it.
Was I about to be served more papers? Be told in person that I was going to be kicked out of Sweetheart Week?
Have my baking license revoked? Could they legally do that after business hours?
After taking a deep breath, I opened the door.
And there was Ethan.
We just stood there for a moment, looking at each other like two people who'd forgotten how to function in polite society.
He looked exhausted—three days of conference room chaos evident in the dark circles under his eyes, the rumpled suit that had definitely been worn for sixteen hours straight, and the general aura of someone who'd been surviving on bad coffee and legal documents.
But he was here. He'd left Seattle, driven across the state, caught the last ferry—all to come home to me.
"Hi," he said, which was adorable considering he'd just made a grand romantic gesture and apparently his brain had short-circuited.
“You’re here. You’re—hi!” I stepped back, gesturing him inside. "“Um, I made coffee. Fair warning: it's extremely strong because I forget how ratios work when I'm stressed. Great quality for a baker to have, I know.”
"Perfect. I've been mainlining prosecutor's office coffee for two days. I'm pretty sure my blood type is now espresso."
We sat at my kitchen table—the same table where we'd reviewed legal documents and eaten takeout and slowly fallen in love while pretending we weren't—both of us holding mugs of coffee we wouldn't drink, both knowing this conversation was about to change everything.
“How long will you be here for? Don’t you have the ethics interview Wednesday?”
"I'll have drive back Tuesday night, do the interview Wednesday morning, then come straight home.
And if they schedule more interviews, I'll make it crystal clear: I live on Lopez Island now.
If they want to talk to me, they can do it remotely or work around my schedule.
Because you matter more than their convenience.
Our life together matters more than making myself available 24/7 for investigations that might drag on for months. "
I felt my eyes fill with tears. “You'd really do that? Just leave?"
"I'm not leaving. I'm coming home. There's a huge difference. The prosecutor doesn't need me sleeping on her conference room couch. She just needs me available to testify when the trial happens. I can do that from Lopez Island just as easily as from Seattle."
"But what if the ethics board—"
"Then they'll have to work around my life instead of me organizing my entire existence around their investigation timeline.
I'm tired of letting legal crises dictate how I live.
I'm tired of being reactive instead of proactive.
And I'm really tired of being away from you.
I don't want to pause," Ethan said before I could speak, his words coming out rushed.
"I don't want to wait until the legal chaos settles.
I want to build our life now, messy and complicated and uncertain as it is. "
"But practically speaking—"
"Practically speaking, I'm probably getting disbarred.
The ethics board's preliminary findings suggest I'm basically screwed.
Best case scenario is a multi-year suspension.
Worst case is permanent 'you're never allowed to practice law again, please return your diplomas.
'" He said it so matter-of-factly that I almost laughed.
"Marcus's civil suit will probably bankrupt me even if we win, because defending it will cost more than my car is worth.
And the job offer from Patterson & Associates only matters if I keep some version of my license, which—see previous point about being screwed. "
"So you'll have no career and no money." I kept my voice carefully neutral, just stating facts.
"Correct. But I'll have my dignity, my integrity, and, I hope, a future with you.
" He reached across the table, taking my hand.
"I know this isn't exactly the fairy tale version of starting a life together.
I know I'm asking you to build one with someone whose professional existence is currently imploding.
But Maya, I've never been more certain of anything.
I want to be here. With you. Figuring out what comes next, even if 'what comes next' is me working at the island grocery store. "
"You'd really work at the grocery store?"
"I'd work anywhere. I'd bag groceries, I'd mow lawns, I'd—I don't know—become a professional dog walker." He squeezed my hand. "The point is, I'm not going back to Seattle. I'm not leaving you to face lawsuits alone while I chase some ghost of my old career. This is where I belong."
I studied him for a long moment, looking for any hint of resentment or second thoughts. Found none. Just exhausted determination and the kind of certainty that comes from burning your life down and deciding the ashes are actually an excellent foundation.
"Okay," I said finally. "Then let's figure it out. Practically. Honestly. All of it."
His face lit up. "Really?"
"Really. But I'm making a list. Color-coded. With contingency plans." I grabbed my notebook—yes, I'd already started a list, because I stress-organize and he knew what he was getting into. "We're doing this properly."
We spent the next two hours mapping out our future in excruciating detail:
Housing: Ethan would move into my cottage.
Not "temporarily maybe possibly if it works out"—just move in.
Give up the hotel room, stop pretending this was casual, accept that we were doing this for real.
If living together turned out to be a disaster, we'd figure out Plan B, but at least we'd be trying instead of maintaining careful emotional distance while occasionally making out in my kitchen.
Finances: I'd cover household expenses while Ethan dealt with the civil suit and ethics investigation.
He'd contribute what he could from his savings, but we'd operate on the assumption that Marcus's lawsuit might financially destroy him.
We'd build a budget that worked on my bakery income alone, which—thankfully—was pretty solid after winning the Sweetheart Week contract.
Work: If Ethan kept his license in any form, he'd pursue consumer protection law, maybe the Patterson & Associates partnership if it materialized.
If he got disbarred, he'd explore other options—paralegal work, consulting, teaching, writing a memoir about how corporate law destroyed his soul, whatever.
Something that used his skills without requiring a law license.
Legal Defense: We'd share a lawyer for Marcus's civil suit since we were co-defendants now.
Richard Sterling had offered to handle it pro bono, which was either incredibly generous or proof that he'd lost his mind.
We'd accept his help and focus on building our defense together instead of separately spiraling.
"This is terrifying," I admitted around 2 AM, after we'd filled four pages of my notebook with plans and contingencies and backup contingencies. "Building a life on this much uncertainty."
"Everything worth building is terrifying." Ethan looked at our careful plans for an uncertain future. "But at least we're building it together. At least we're not facing everything separately anymore."
"When's the ethics interview?"
"Wednesday morning. I'll drive up Tuesday night, do the interview, drive back Wednesday afternoon." He rubbed his eyes. "Then I'm here until the next crisis requires me somewhere else. But my default location is Lopez Island. With you. That's non-negotiable."
"And when the criminal trial starts?"
"Then I go to Seattle for however long that takes. Testify, face cross-examination about my ethical failures, probably get eviscerated by defense attorneys." He said it so casually I almost laughed. "But I come home after. Every time. This is home now."
I stood, pulling him up with me. "I know this isn't the perfect—"
"Stop apologizing for not being perfect." I moved closer, my hands framing his face. "I don't want perfect. Perfect is boring. I want real. I want someone who fights for what matters even when it costs everything. I want you, Ethan. Messy and complicated and uncertain as this all is."
He kissed me then—deep and certain and full of promise. Not the desperate kisses from before, all fear and uncertainty. This was different. This was commitment. This was choosing each other despite the universe actively working against us.
"I'm exhausted," he admitted when we finally broke apart. "I've been awake for approximately seventy-two hours and my brain is refusing to form coherent thoughts."
"Then stop thinking. Come to bed. We can panic about the future tomorrow."
We fell asleep tangled together in my bed, Ethan's breathing evening out almost immediately, his arm heavy and warm across my waist. I lay awake a little longer, processing everything we'd decided.
It wasn't a fairy tale. It was messy and uncertain and built on foundations that might still crumble under legal pressure.
But it was real. It was ours. And it was worth fighting for.