I tipped the beer to my lips again, let the cold fizz numb my tongue and slide down into the hollow behind my ribs where the weight lived now—quiet, patient, unmoving. It didn't help. Not really. But I drank anyway. Kept chasing whatever edge might smooth it out.
Just as the fire began to hiss its way through another log, headlights curled gently around the bend in the dirt road. Not blinding—just steady. Patient, almost, as though whoever drove knew they had nowhere else they needed to be. And then I heard it—the faint pulse of music spilling from cracked windows, bass notes drifting slowly through frost-thick air. It was a sound that didn't quite belong here, deep in our quiet, but it came anyway, certain and sure, claiming space without asking permission.
Sean.
His truck eased into the clearing, tires soft over packed snow. The doors opened before the engine even sighed into silence. Sean stepped out first—coat unzipped, grin wide, his dark curls wild in the way they always seemed to be, as if he'd outrun something he never intended to face. He moved with an ease that didn't match the night, like he brought his own warmth wherever he went.
And beside him, stepping from the passenger side with quieter, surer grace, was someone I'd never seen before.
She was striking in the way of something rare and subtle—quiet enough that you didn't realize how closely you were paying attention until you'd already leaned in. Her skin was warm-hued, smooth as worn stone, glowing softly beneath the fire's amber light. Her hair was dark, neatly braided, framing her face in gentle lines that caught and held the flames as though she'd planned it. She wore turquoise earrings, small and delicate, carefully chosen in a way that said they mattered, even if no one else noticed. A wool blanket draped around her shoulders was tucked neatly over a worn denim jacket—faded not from fashion, but from the years she'd carried it through.
"Evenin', sinners," Sean called, nudging the truck door shut with the lazy confidence of someone who'd never once doubted his welcome. "Brought backup.We miss the pre-show?"
Caleb stood, spreading his arms wide. "We were about five minutes from drinkin' to our childhood trauma. You're right on time."
Sean laughed, warm and easy, and reached to draw the girl closer—his arm looping around her waist like the motion had become second nature. She didn't resist. Instead, she settled in comfortably, as if she'd learned long ago how to balance warmth and independence without sacrificing either.
"This is Aiyana," Sean said. His voice softened just enough to hold a quiet pride. "She's better than all of you. Try not to ruin her."
Aiyana gave a faint, amused smile. Not shy—just patient. She moved to sit beside me while Sean gathered wood and built up the fire again, flames catching and climbing fast, scattering sparks upward like loose stars.
She settled onto the log beside me, close enough that I caught the subtle warmth radiating from her shoulder, yet careful to leave a respectful margin of air. She drew the wool blanket tighter, not hurriedly, but in a gentle, thoughtful motion, like someone accustomed to letting silence breathe before deciding to fill it.
The fire, newly fed by Sean's eager hands, crackled higher and brighter, gold spilling generously outward to chase away the lingering chill at our backs. He knelt there a moment longer, balancing a new log into place with a satisfied nod, dusting ash from his palms as he rose.
"Better?" Sean asked no one in particular, grin still loose at the corners, relaxed and easy, like the cold had no hold on him.
"Depends," Caleb said, reaching back toward the cooler. "We done nursing our drinks, or are we waitin' till sunrise?"
YOU ARE READING
Firefly Nights
Non-Fiction▍ AN ORIGINAL ╱ western romance There's a kind of wild you can't outrun. Lemon Odell knows this better than anyone-the kind that lives under your skin, that shapes the way you move, the way you fight, the way you break. Born into a bloodline stitch...
