Firefly Nights

CHAPTER 18.45

 I'd always believed winter made people honest.

The cold strips everything down—trees, earth, even the sky. Leaves fall. Ground cracks. Clouds hang low and heavy like they're holding their breath. And people, when it gets cold enough, stop pretending they're not aching. They pull their coats tighter, speak a little slower, lean closer to the fire.

Tonight was the kind of night that asked you to tell the truth.

The kind where the dark didn't press, it hushed. Where the sky wasn't just black—it was deep. Bottomless. Stars spilled across it like they'd been scattered on purpose, and the moon was thin and watchful, high above the pines that circled the fire pit like gods.

I pulled my knees to my chest, sweater sleeves stretched over my hands, boots tipped just close enough to the flames to thaw the cold that had settled in my bones. My jeans was dusted with flurries that hadn't yet melted, and my breath came out in little puffs that disappeared before I could see where they went.

Colt sat just to my left, legs stretched out toward the flames, his boot heels dug into the dirt like he was bracing against the whole night. He hadn't said much since we started the fire—not that he needed to. He never did. His silences weren't empty. They were full of shape and weight, like the kind of quiet that settles into a barn after a long day, when the work's done and there's nothing left to do but listen to the wind push against the rafters.

He nursed a beer, the neck of the bottle resting loose between his fingers. The firelight turned the amber to something almost honey-colored, and I caught myself watching the way it moved when he shifted his grip. The way his thumb brushed over the glass without thinking, like he needed something solid to hold onto.

The closer we got to Nationals, the more I saw it—that shadow behind his eyes. Not fear, exactly. Just... weight. Like he was carrying something he hadn't named yet.

I didn't ask. Not yet.

Instead, I reached down and cracked open the soda I'd tucked into the cooler earlier—peach, faintly sweet, the kind I used to drink on long rides back from the feed store, back when things were simpler. I wasn't even sure why I'd brought it. Maybe I wanted to be reminded of something that didn't ache.

The fire snapped, a log shifting just enough to send a burst of sparks up into the air. Colt glanced over, caught my eye for half a second, and gave me that look—the one that said he was glad I was here without needing to say it. The one that made my ribs feel like they'd been knocked loose and reassembled softer.

I pulled my knees tighter. The cold was settling in deeper now, slow and certain, the kind that made you grateful for every inch of fleece and flannel you'd layered before stepping outside.

Somewhere behind us, headlights swept through the trees, carving long shadows across the ground. Caleb, probably. Maybe Sean. The others were trickling in, one by one, drawn to the fire like moths.

But for now, it was just Colt and me.

I looked at him again, really looked, and felt something shift under my skin.

This wasn't a pause in the story. This was the story. The part you look back on later and realize—that was when everything changed. Not with a kiss. Not with a fight. But with a silence that felt like it understood you.

"You warm enough?" Colt asked, his voice low, like he didn't want to break the shape of the quiet too much.

I nodded, even though it wasn't true.

The fire didn't reach the parts of me that were cold. Not really. Not the hollow stretch just below my ribs, or the tight place in my throat where I kept pretending I wasn't already counting down the days.