The house was still quiet when Maddie padded into the kitchen, barefoot, her silk robe barely tied.

*The girls were miraculously still asleep — a rare grace. The only sound came from the soft hum of the espresso machine and the distant crash of waves from just beyond the dunes. October mornings in the Outer Banks had a strange kind of stillness — crisp but not cold, golden light pouring in over driftwood floors, everything smelling faintly of salt and linen. She pressed a button on the machine and leaned on the marble counter, rubbing at her temples as it sputtered to life. *

Her inbox had already started buzzing — instructors calling out sick, a late shipment of flooring for Studio B, a reminder that her accountant still needed the updated financial statements for Q3. But she hadn’t opened a single email yet.

She couldn’t. Not after the conversation from last night.

Footsteps behind her made her glance over her shoulder. Rafe entered the kitchen in a soft black tee and joggers, hair still tousled from sleep, barefoot like her. He had the look of someone who was trying not to make noise — a man used to walking through mornings gently, especially when the house was still in its fragile peace.

“Hey,” he said quietly, reaching past her to grab a mug.

“Hey,” she replied, not turning to face him just yet.

He poured himself coffee, leaning against the opposite counter. For a few seconds, they sipped in silence — not uncomfortable, but not entirely easy either.

“You slept?” he asked finally.

“Kind of.” She glanced at him. “You?”

He gave her a look. “You know I never sleep when you're mad at me.”

“I wasn’t mad.”

Rafe gave a soft huff of disbelief, swirling his coffee. “You didn’t say a word the whole ride home.”

“Would you rather I yelled?”

“I’d rather you not think I’m lying to you.”

Maddie set her mug down, finally turning to face him. “Then don’t act like I’m an idiot, Rafe. You think I don’t hear things? People talk. Contractors, board members, studio parents — they’re all saying the same thing. That something’s going on with the Goat Island project. That you’re over budget, behind schedule, and—”

“I’m not being sued,” he cut in, more sharply than he meant to. “That article was pure speculation. The town council’s dragging their feet because they’re under pressure from the historical committee. It’s politics. Not scandal.”

“So you’re saying there's nothing to worry about?” she asked, folding her arms.

He looked at her for a long moment. “I’m saying I have it handled.”

That wasn’t the same thing.