Chapter 21: The Waiting Game

Elias woke in Nora's bed, her warmth curled against him, the sheets tangled from a restless night. They'd crashed here after the lighthouse, too wired to part, and fallen asleep talking—plans, fears, the vote. No sex, just closeness, her head on his chest, his hand in her hair. It was new, this quiet, and he liked it more than he'd expected.

She stirred, blinking awake. "Hey," she said, voice thick.

"Hey," she said, brushing a strand from her face. "You good?"

"Nervous," she admitted, sitting up. "Today's it."

He nodded, the weight settling back. The council meeting was at six—hours away, but already pressing. "We've got this," he said, pulling her close. "They'll see it."

She kissed him, quick and fierce, then rolled out of bed. "Coffee," she said, padding to the kitchen in his flannel. He followed, watching her move—bare legs, messy hair—and felt a pang of something deep, something he hadn't named yet.

They drank in silence, the day stretching ahead. She showered first, then him, the hot water loosening his knots. By noon, they were at the lighthouse, double-checking everything—roof tight, walls patched, the lantern room gleaming with new glass they'd scraped for. It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs.

Meg met them there, her truck loaded with flyers. "Town's buzzing," she said, handing Nora a stack. "Half's for you, half's against. Fishermen want the cash from demo—new docks."

"Great," Nora muttered, tucking the flyers under her arm. "More fights."

"They'll come around," Elias said, squeezing her shoulder. "They have to."

The hours dragged—phone calls, last-minute pleas, Nora pacing like a caged animal. He stayed steady, hammering loose boards, keeping the crew on track. By five, they were done, the lighthouse as ready as it'd get. They drove to the hall together, her hand tight in his, the silence heavy.

The room was packed—standing room only, voices loud and sharp. Mrs. Haskell banged her gavel, cutting through. "Lighthouse vote," she said. "Nora Calder's got the floor."

Nora stood, her notes shaking in her hand. "You've seen it," she said, voice clear. "Grants, donations, repairs—we've got it standing. It's history—Amos and Mary, our storms, our survival. Tear it down, and you're tearing us up."

Murmurs rippled. A fisherman—Tom, grizzled and loud—stood. "Demo's cash now. Docks matter more than ghosts."

"We've got cash," Elias cut in, standing beside her. "Repairs are funded. Tourism'll bring more than docks ever will."

Tom scowled, but others nodded—Meg, the café owner, kids who'd helped at the fundraiser. Nora laid out the numbers—$28,000 raised, $15,000 spent, a plan for the rest. Elias backed her, calm but firm, his hand brushing hers when she faltered.

The council recessed, deliberating behind closed doors, and Nora sank into a chair, trembling. "Think they'll buy it?" she whispered.

"Yeah," he said, sitting close. "They have to."

They waited, her leg bouncing, his arm around her. The crowd thinned, then swelled again as the council filed back. Mrs. Haskell cleared her throat. "Vote's in," she said. "Three-two. Lighthouse stays—conditional. Six months to prove it pays."

Nora gasped, gripping his hand, and he pulled her into a hug, relief crashing through him. "We did it," she said, voice muffled in his shirt.

"Damn right," he said, kissing her hair. The room buzzed—cheers, grumbles—but it faded. They'd won, for now, and it was enough.

Outside, the night was cold, stars sharp overhead. They walked to the lighthouse, hand in hand, the tower dark but theirs. "Six months," she said, leaning against him. "Think we can?"

"We've got this," he said, turning her to face him. He kissed her—deep, slow, the victory sweet on her lips. "Together."

"Together," she echoed, and they stood there, the sea whispering, the fight not over but won for tonight.