24. Coming Home #2
Saturday morning, I woke to the smell of coffee and found Ethan in my kitchen, making breakfast with the confidence of someone who'd decided this was his home now and was claiming territory.
"Morning," he said, sliding a plate of perfectly cooked eggs and toast across the counter. "I hope you don't mind. I figured out where everything was and made myself useful. Apparently three years of living on takeout didn't completely destroy my ability to cook basic breakfast foods."
"You're making me breakfast at 7 AM after getting maybe three hours of sleep. I definitely don't mind." I grabbed the coffee he'd already poured. "What time do you have to call the prosecutor?"
"Ten. Grand jury session starts at eleven." He sat beside me, our knees touching in that casual intimacy of people who'd decided to build a life together. "But until then, I'm all yours. What happens at Honey & Hearth on Sweetheart Week Saturday?"
"Chaos. Tourists everywhere, special orders for hotels, special event at the farmers market." I took a bite of eggs. "You don't have to come help. You could sleep, or decompress, or—"
"I want to." He smiled. "Besides, what else am I going to do? Sit here refreshing legal blogs and spiraling about my impending professional doom? I'd rather learn how to make heart-shaped pastries and pretend my life isn't falling apart."
So we went to the bakery together, falling into an easy rhythm—Ethan helping Tessa with customers while I focused on production, the three of us working together like we'd done this for years instead of weeks.
Islanders who came in noticed him, welcomed him back, asked how long he was staying.
"Permanently," Ethan said, and I heard the certainty in his voice. "This is home now."
Emily Russell actually teared up when she heard him say it. "Good. We need more people who'll fight for this community instead of just profiting from it."
At 10 AM, Ethan stepped outside to call Jennifer Walsh. I watched through the window as he paced, nodding, taking notes. The conversation lasted fifteen minutes.
When he came back inside, his expression was complicated—satisfaction mixed with apprehension and what looked like mild nausea.
"The grand jury indicted," he said quietly. "All charges. Fraud, conspiracy, extortion, falsification of documents. The prosecutor is filing charges Monday morning. Arrests happen Tuesday."
"That's good, right?" Tessa asked, reading his tone.
"It's justice. It's what should happen." Ethan sat heavily on a stool. "But it's also going to be incredibly public. Media coverage, legal analysis, my entire career dissected by people who've never met me. The spotlight I've been dreading is about to become a floodlight."
I moved behind him, my hands on his shoulders. "And we face it together. You don't have to carry this alone anymore."
My phone rang. Richard Sterling.
I answered on speaker. "Richard?"
"Maya, Ethan—I have news. The state bar reached out this morning.
" His voice was carefully controlled. "They're requesting that Ethan appear for Wednesday's interview with legal representation present.
That's unusual. It suggests they're moving from investigation to formal disciplinary proceedings. "
"Formal proceedings meaning what, exactly?" I asked, already knowing I wouldn't like the answer.
"Meaning they've made a preliminary determination that ethical violations occurred, and now they're proceeding to the punishment phase.
" Richard paused. "But there's something else.
Judge Morrison filed a statement with the state bar yesterday.
A detailed account of the Lopez Island fraud case, the evidence Ethan presented, and her professional opinion that his disclosure was instrumentally important in protecting a local business and exposing criminal fraud. "
"Will that help?" Ethan's voice was carefully neutral.
"It might. It gives the board a reason to show leniency—acknowledging the violations while crediting the ultimate outcome.
" Richard's tone warmed slightly. "The judge specifically noted that your actions, while ethically problematic in timing, demonstrated 'extraordinary integrity and commitment to protecting vulnerable community members from sophisticated financial predation. '"
"But they're still moving forward with formal charges."
"Yes. But formal charges with judicial support for leniency are very different from formal charges seeking maximum penalties. This suggests suspension with eventual reinstatement rather than permanent disbarment."
Suspension instead of permanent disbarment. Still losing his license, still facing professional consequences, but not permanent career destruction.
"When will we know for sure?" I asked.
"The disciplinary hearing is scheduled for two weeks from now. They'll present their case, Ethan presents his defense, and the board makes a final determination." Richard paused. "I'll represent you, Ethan. Pro bono. We'll build the best defense possible."
After hanging up, Ethan sat quietly, processing.
"Two weeks," he said finally. "Two weeks until we know whether I keep any version of my law license."
"And in the meantime?" I asked.
"In the meantime, we live our lives. We run the bakery. We prepare for the hearing. We build the future we decided on last night." He stood, pulling me close. "Because regardless of what the state bar decides, my commitment doesn't change. I'm here. With you. Building this."
Tessa cleared her throat from across the kitchen.
"Okay, I'm going to say what everyone's thinking but is too polite to mention: you two need to officially announce the living situation.
Because Ethan showing up at dawn looking like he slept here is going to generate gossip, and you might as well control the narrative. "
"He's moving in," I said simply. "Not temporarily, not 'we'll see how it goes'—just moving in. He's giving up his hotel room and officially living in my cottage."
"Finally." Tessa grinned. "About time you two stopped pretending this was casual."
The rest of Saturday passed in Sweetheart Week chaos—tourists, special orders, the farmers market event where Ethan and I worked the booth together, selling heart-shaped pastéis de nata to couples celebrating love.
It felt symbolic. Standing there beside Ethan, building the life we'd promised each other one small moment at a time.
Sunday morning, I woke to Ethan already on a call with the prosecutor, going over grand jury testimony. He mouthed "sorry" when he saw I was awake.
I just smiled and went to shower. This was our life now—legal calls and bakery work and stolen moments between crises.
By Sunday afternoon, news of the criminal indictments had broken. My phone filled with articles: "Investment Group Indicted for Fraud," "Lopez Island Case Leads to Criminal Charges," "Whistleblower Attorney's Evidence Prompts Grand Jury Action."
And in every article, Ethan's name. His ethics violations. The ongoing debate about whether he was a hero or a criminal.
"How do you handle this?" I asked, watching him read coverage with practiced detachment. "Seeing your entire career analyzed by strangers on the internet?"
"I focus on what matters." He set down his phone. "The fraud is exposed. Charges are filed. Justice is happening. That's what matters. Everything else is just noise."
"Even if the noise costs you your license?"
"Even then." He pulled me close. "Because I'd rather lose my license doing the right thing than keep it by staying silent. And I'd rather face professional consequences with you beside me than face success alone."
My phone buzzed. My mother: "Saw the news coverage. Your lawyer friend seems very brave. Or very foolish. Possibly both. Are you sure about this, querida?"
I typed back: "Very sure. He's moving in with me. We're building a life together. It's messy and complicated and I've never been more certain of anything."
Her response came quickly: "Then I'm happy for you. Love should be messy and complicated and certain all at once. Your father and I were like that. Hold onto it."
I showed Ethan the message.
"Your mother approves?"
"Apparently. She's comparing us to her and my father, which is basically her highest compliment."
"Then I'll try to deserve it." He kissed my forehead. "Two weeks until the ethics hearing. Can you handle two more weeks of uncertainty?"
"I've been handling uncertainty for seven years. Two more weeks is nothing." I leaned into him. "Besides, I have something certain now. You. Us. The life we're building. That's enough."
And standing in my cottage on a Sunday evening, with legal battles looming and futures uncertain, I meant it.
We had each other. We had commitment. We had the courage to keep building even when everything else was falling apart.
That was more than enough.
That was everything.