CREW

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By the time the sun slips behind the water, the lighthouse is already alive.

Jack-o’-lanterns line the path from the road to the door, their carved faces flickering like they know something the rest of us don’t. Cobwebs stretch between the railings, dramatic and excessive. And there—hanging crookedly from a nail I absolutely hammered in with confidence—is the sign.

GHOST TOUR → THIS WAY, the arrow pointing nowhere helpful.

I grin every time I see it.

Bailey stands at the bottom of the spiral staircase, clipboard tucked to her chest, black sweater dress brushing her knees. The lantern light catches in her hair, softens the lines of her face. She looks like autumn made a decision and chose her.

“You’re late,” she says, but her eyes are dancing.

“I was building suspense,” I say, tugging my dark henley straight like I planned this timing and didn’t sprint up the path thirty seconds ago.

“You were arguing with the otter.”

I lift Sir Reginald from behind my back. He’s wearing a tiny witch hat and a glow necklace because I commit to bits. “Sir Reginald insists on creative differences.”

Bailey bites her lip, trying not to laugh.

She never wins that fight.

Families start to gather—kids in costumes buzzing with sugar and excitement, parents clutching coffee like lifelines, tourists holding their phones out like they might capture a ghost if they’re quick enough. Above us, the lantern room glows steady and watchful.

Bailey clears her throat. Professional. Grounded. Herself.
“Welcome to the Coral Bell Cove Lighthouse Ghost Tour. Tonight we’ll be exploring the real stories behind the legends—”

“And by real,” I add, slipping Sir Reginald onto my hand, “she means historically accurate and not legally actionable.”

A kid dressed like a pirate gasps. “Is it haunted?”

Sir Reginald nods solemnly. “By poor life choices.”

Bailey elbows me, sharp and familiar, and I just smile wider.

We start the tour slowly, guiding the group up the spiral staircase in clusters. The air smells like sea salt and pumpkin spice and old stone. Bailey talks about keepers lost at sea, lights that burned through storms, footsteps heard long after the last watch ended.

I follow close behind her. Closer than necessary.

The stairs narrow, and instinct takes over—my hand finding her waist to steady her. Automatic. Easy. Too intimate to ignore.

Her breath stutters.

She keeps talking anyway.

Every time my fingers brush her, something tightens in my chest. Like my body knows this matters, even if my mouth keeps cracking jokes.

At the lantern room, everyone gathers in a half circle. The glass reflects the night outside—dark water, scattered stars, the moon hanging low and curious.

“And this,” Bailey says softly, “is where the light lived.”

Sir Reginald peers up at the lamp. “Very rude of it to leave.”

Laughter ripples through the group, and Bailey turns toward me, smiling—really smiling—and for a second the world narrows down to just us and the glow between.

A parent snaps a photo.

The moment breaks.

Downstairs, there’s apple cider and candy. I voice Sir Reginald for every kid who asks and several who don’t. When the last family leaves and the door clicks shut, silence settles over the lighthouse like a held breath.

Bailey exhales and leans back against the counter. “That was a success.”

I set Sir Reginald aside with ceremony. “I demand hazard pay.”

“For what?”

“Being irresistible in a haunted structure.”

She snorts. “You were flirting with parents.”

“I was educating.”

She steps closer, tilting her head. “You were doing voices.”

“Seductively.”

She laughs—and then stops when my hand slides to her hip.

The lighthouse is quiet now. No footsteps. No laughter. Just the hum of the lantern above and the ocean breathing below.

“You did good tonight,” she says, softer.

“So did you.”

Our gazes lock. The playful edge dims, replaced by something slower. Warmer. Charged.

“We should clean up,” she says.

“We should,” I agree—and don’t move.

She notices. Smiles.

Outside, the wind has teeth now. Cold and sharp. She shivers as it sneaks under her sweater, and my body reacts before my brain does. I drape my jacket around her shoulders, tugging it close, tying the sleeves in front of her.

My knuckles skim her collarbone.

Her pulse jumps.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

“Always.”

When we step back inside, the lighthouse feels smaller. Like it knows what’s about to happen and is politely looking away.

She reaches for a strand of fake cobweb near the stairs. I reach for the same one.

Our hands collide.

We freeze.

Slowly, deliberately, I turn my hand palm-up and thread my fingers through hers. The contact is warm. Grounding. Electric.

“Bailey,” I say quietly.

“Yes.”

I don’t kiss her right away. I step closer, crowding her space until her back brushes the stone wall, until my body shields her from the cold and the rest of the world.

My thumb strokes the inside of her wrist.

“You were incredible tonight,” I tell her. “The way you talk about this place… it’s like you let people borrow your heart.”

Her throat tightens. “You make it easier.”

My forehead rests against hers. “You always have.”

When I kiss her, it’s unhurried. Deep. A kiss that knows exactly where it’s going and enjoys every second of the journey.

Her hands slide into my hair.
My grip firms at her waist.

The lighthouse groans softly—wood settling, wind shifting—and it feels like permission.

We don’t rush. We never do anymore.

My mouth traces along her jaw, down her throat, lingering where her pulse flutters. Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer.

“Crew,” she breathes, shaky. “We’re still in public.”

“Technically,” I murmur against her skin, “the ghosts won’t tell.”

She laughs—and then my mouth finds hers again, hotter this time, hunger threading through the tenderness.

When I finally pull back, my forehead rests against hers, breath uneven.

“Upstairs?” I ask.

She nods.

We climb the spiral slowly, hands tangled, bodies brushing with every turn. At the top, the lantern room glows—soft, golden, intimate.

I close the door behind us.

The lighthouse keeps its secrets.