Firefly Nights

CHAPTER 17.99

We crested the ridge then, boots crunching against frost-touched gravel, and the clouds thinned just enough for light to fall between them in long, golden beams—quiet as breath, slanting sideways across the land.

And there, tucked into a shallow dip where the wind broke and the light lingered, was a patch of wild rose bushes. Their branches were thin and tangled, still clinging to color like they hadn't yet accepted the season had changed. Clusters of rose hips blushed dark and red against the thorned limbs, catching what little warmth the sun still had to give.

"There," I said, breath catching in my throat. "They're still here."

I didn't move at first. Just stared. Like the sight of them had touched something in me I didn't know was waiting to be seen. The hips looked like drops of blood against the gray bramble—small and hard-won, like the kind of beauty you only found when you were willing to keep looking.

"They outlasted the frost," I murmured, fingers brushing the rose hips still clinging to the stem. "Stubborn things."

Colt knelt beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. His jacket brushed mine, the pressure quiet and steady.

"Kinda like you," he said.

I didn't look at him, just let the corner of my mouth lift, the kind of smile that belonged to no one but the earth and the moment and the man beside me.

We didn't take many. Just a handful, palms red-stained and raw-edged, enough to say we were here. Enough to call the day what it was—something soft tucked inside something wild. Then we walked the rest of the way down to the creek where the air changed.

The cold thinned near the water, replaced by something gentler. A breath of heat, rising in ribbons from the stones where the spring fed through—a pocket of warmth, quiet and unexpected. Steam lifted in curls, catching in the light like lace unraveling in the wind. You wouldn't know it was here if you weren't looking close.

Colt found a stretch of dry grass tucked just above the bank. He set the basket down without a word, and I unfurled the blanket with hands that didn't tremble, but felt everything. Colt sank down to the other corner of the blanket like he didn't quite know what to expect.

Neither did I.

I unpacked slow, steady—hands practiced, careful. But my chest was louder than it had been all morning.

It wasn't just the food. It was the choosing of it. The folding of the linen napkins. The tying of twine. The decision to bring the shortbread tin instead of hiding it behind the flour jars where it had sat untouched for months. I hadn't brought it to impress him. I'd brought it because grief taught me to give the good things before they were gone.

And maybe—maybe because I wanted to know if someone like Colt Langmore knew how to hold softness without breaking it.

I spread everything out across the blanket, and when I sat back, I felt the moment shift. Not in some dramatic, earth-cracking kind of way. Just... a settling. Like two weights had finally found balance.

He looked at the spread. Then at me.

"You packed enough for an army," he said, voice low and even, but the edge of it was warm. "Gonna start thinkin' you do this for all your cowboys."

I smirked. "Only the ones who survive getting thrown through panels."

His mouth twitched. "High bar."

And I swear—there was something about that half-smile of his. It never quite reached his mouth but always found its way into his eyes. It wasn't a performance. It wasn't meant for show. It was a private kind of warmth. The kind you only offered if you meant it.