Chapter 7: The Storm Brews

Elias stood in the town hall, arms crossed, as the council droned on about budgets and fishing quotas. The lighthouse was last on the agenda, and he could feel Nora's presence two rows back, radiating tension. He hadn't slept much—Leah's quiet mood after her coffee with Nora had kept him up, pacing the kitchen while she slept. She hadn't pushed, hadn't accused, but her silence said plenty.

"Next item," Mrs. Haskell called, adjusting her glasses. "Lighthouse update. Mr. Hart?"

He stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Crew's assessed the cracks. East wall's compromised—load-bearing, like I figured. Could patch it with concrete, reinforce the base, but it's not cheap. Demo's still on unless funding changes."

Nora was on her feet before he finished. "It can be funded," she said, voice cutting through the murmurs. "I've got grant applications in—federal preservation, historical trusts. And precedent—town saved it in 1890 with donations. We can do it again."

The room buzzed. Mrs. Haskell frowned. "That's ambitious, Nora. Timeline's tight—April 15th demo's locked unless you've got cash now."

"I'll have it," Nora shot back. "Give me two weeks."

Elias turned, catching her eye. She looked fierce, determined, and it hit him hard—same fire she'd had at 17, daring him to climb the tower in a thunderstorm. "You sure about this?" he asked, loud enough for the room.

"Dead sure," she said, holding his gaze. "You in or out?"

He should've said no. Should've stuck to his crew, his paycheck, his life with Leah. But the lighthouse pulled at him, and so did she. "I'll hold off," he said. "Two weeks. That's it."

The council grumbled but agreed, and the meeting broke apart. Elias headed outside, the air sharp with an incoming storm—dark clouds rolling in from the sea. Nora caught up, her boots splashing in puddles.

"Thanks," she said, breathless. "For buying me time."

"Don't thank me yet," he said, stopping by his truck. "You've got a hell of a hill to climb."

"I know." She shivered, her coat soaked through. "But I've got a shot now."

Rain started falling harder, and he cursed under his breath, pulling his jacket off. "Here," he said, draping it over her shoulders. It was reflex, not thought, and her eyes widened.

"I'm fine," she said, but didn't shrug it off.

"You're not," he said, gruff. "You're shaking."

She looked up at him, rain streaking her face, and for a second, he forgot Leah, forgot the ring, forgot everything but her. "Elias," she started, voice soft, "there's stuff I need to—"

Thunder cracked, cutting her off, and she flinched. "Later," he said, stepping back. "Get inside before you drown."

She nodded, clutching his jacket, and hurried off. He watched her go, the storm growling overhead, and wondered what she'd almost said—and why it felt like it'd change everything.

Back home, Leah was in the kitchen, chopping carrots for soup, the radio humming low. She glanced up as he walked in, soaked and tense. "Rough day?" she asked, casual but careful.

"Yeah," he said, kicking off his boots. "Council stuff. Storm's coming."

She nodded, knife steady. "Saw Nora there. She's really fighting for that lighthouse."

"She is," he said, grabbing a beer from the fridge. "Gave her two weeks to pull it off."

Leah's hands stilled. "You're helping her?"

"Delaying, not helping," he said, popping the cap. "Crew's on hold either way."

She turned, wiping her hands on a towel, her eyes searching his. "You sure that's all it is?"

He froze, beer halfway to his mouth. "What's that mean?"

"Nothing," she said, too quick. "Just… you've been off since she got here."

"Leah," he started, but she waved him off.

"It's fine," she said, turning back to the stove. "Soup's almost ready."

It wasn't fine. He could feel it in the air, thick as the storm outside. He took his beer to the porch, rain hammering the roof, and tried not to think about Nora in his jacket—or the way her voice had trembled, like she was on the edge of something big.