Chapter Twenty-One #3
Crew went perfectly still.
Not shocked, exactly.
Hit.
Like the words had landed somewhere he had been protecting for years.
My voice shook, but I kept going.
“I’m saying it because I mean it. Not because you said it first. Not because the town wants it. Not because Tom deserves a happy ending, although he does, and he will absolutely use this against us.”
Crew made a rough sound that might have been a laugh.
I stepped closer.
“I love you now. Not old you. Not imaginary you. You. The man who texts from rest stops and tells me when he’s scared and brings coffee with light ice and writes anti-silence plans like a complete menace.”
His eyes shone.
“Marin.”
“And I am still scared.”
“I know.”
“But I love you scared.”
A tear slipped down his cheek.
Crew Donnelly.
Captain Serious.
Crying beside a newly repaired veterans center roof because I finally said the thing.
Oh, I was in trouble.
He smiled through it.
“I love you too.”
“I know.”
His laugh broke.
I smiled.
“Annoying, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
He reached for me slowly.
I met him halfway.
The kiss was soft at first.
Almost disbelieving.
Then not.
Not because it became wild.
Because it became certain.
His hand at my cheek.
Mine fisted in his shirt.
The repaired roof above us.
The town politely pretending not to watch and definitely watching.
Somewhere, Talia made a sound that was half sob, half victory.
Frankie whispered, “I am saying nothing.”
Sutton whispered, “For once, yes.”
Tom’s voice carried across the lawn.
“Allergies!”
I laughed against Crew’s mouth.
He laughed too.
We pulled back, foreheads close.
“Your father,” I whispered.
“Our problem,” Crew said.
My heart tripped.
Our.
This time, the word did not scare me.
Not enough to run.
I looked toward Tom.
He sat under the tent, Mrs. Bell beside him, one hand lifted in a small salute.
I saluted back with two fingers and absolutely no dignity.
Crew’s hand found mine.
In public.
No camera.
No post.
No theft.
Just our fingers linked.
My choice.
His.
The town let it be.
Mostly.
Mrs. Paxton did whisper, “Privacy-respectful,” to Dotty, but I chose mercy.
For the roof.
Obviously.
Later, when the sun sank and the lights came on under the tent, Crew and I helped clean up folding chairs. He carried stacks. I packed leftover cookies. Talia supervised with unnecessary smugness. Wilder and Frankie were assigned trash duty because justice had become tradition.
Tom held court by the pie table until Mrs. Bell ordered him home.
Before he left, he pulled me aside.
“You good, kid?”
I looked at Crew across the lawn.
He was laughing at something Beck said while holding three folding chairs and one tray of cups.
Then he looked over.
Found me.
Smiled.
There you are.
I looked back at Tom.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m good.”
Tom’s eyes softened.
“Right good?”
I laughed.
“Right good.”
He nodded once.
“That’s all I wanted.”
“No, it isn’t. You also wanted pie.”
“I’m a complex man.”
I hugged him carefully.
He hugged me back.
Family.
Not because anyone declared it.
Because we kept choosing it.
When the lawn was finally clear, Crew walked me to my car.
The same car.
A different night.
I turned near the driver’s door.
“So.”
“So,” he said.
“You’re back until Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“And then campus.”
“Yes.”
“And then back.”
“Yes.”
“And calls.”
“Yes.”
“And no silence.”
“No silence.”
“And light ice.”
“Always.”
I narrowed my eyes.
He smiled.
“I’ll earn it.”
I leaned against the car and looked at him.
The sky above Honeybrook was dark now, the first stars appearing over the newly repaired roofline.
No fireworks.
No livestream.
No crowd chanting.
Just Crew.
Me.
The road.
“I missed you while you were gone,” I said.
His face changed.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“I missed you too.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
“Very.”
“But manageable.”
“With updates.”
“And coffee.”
“And protein.”
“And occasional kissing under controlled conditions.”
His mouth curved.
“Extremely controlled?”
I stepped closer, looped my fingers in his shirt, and pulled him down.
“Don’t make me file paperwork.”
He kissed me smiling.
That should have been illegal.
When I pulled back, I was smiling too.
Not because everything was easy.
It would not be.
Not because distance was fixed.
It was not.
Not because old hurt had vanished.
It had become part of the repair line, visible if you knew where to look.
But the ceiling held.
The roof held.
Crew held my hand without making it a cage.
And I held his back.
That was enough for tonight.
More than enough.
The next morning, Honeybrook woke up to a thank-you post from the veterans center.
One photo.
The roof.
No people.
No hearts.
No hashtags about me.
The caption read:
The roof is repaired. Thank you for showing up.
Underneath it, Tom commented:
Good roof.
Frankie replied:
Structurally emotional.
Sutton replied:
No.
Crew sent me the screenshot with no comment.
I sent back:
Good roof.
He replied:
Good beginning.
I stared at those two words for a long time.
Then smiled.
Because he was right.
And because, for once, I was not afraid of the comments.
I was too busy living the part nobody else got to write.