Normal. Human. Warm.
Mara’s face lights up. “Wow. This is… This is actually really nice.”
Nicolae guides us to seats near the head table, where Dragana presides. She nods acknowledgment but doesn’t speak.
The meal begins.
Platters pass hand to hand. Someone fills our cups with steaming, spiced wine that smells of cinnamon and cloves and something herbal.
Mara takes a cautious sip, then her eyes widen. “Oh, my God. This is amazing.”
Nicolae grins. “Grandmother’s secret recipe. She will not share, even with family.”
The wine is good. Rich and warming, sliding down my throat with heat that has nothing to do with temperature.
I watch Mara carefully. She’s still healing, still recovering from trauma that should have killed her. Alcohol might not be wise.
But she’s smiling. Really smiling, for the first time since the crash.
Talking with Nicolae in a mix of English and enthusiastic hand gestures. Laughing at something Andrei says. Accepting seconds of the stew that tastes better than anything I remember eating.
The tension from yesterday has eased. The walls she built after I pulled away from our first kiss are gone. I wonder if the memory of that moment at the stream still lingers for her, too.
She looks happy.
When was the last time someone made her feel this way?
Temporary homes. Relationships that don’t stick. Friends who drift away. I’m always the one people leave behind.
Her words from the stream echo in my mind. The raw honesty. The pain beneath.
She deserves this. Deserves to feel wanted, valued, kept.
And watching her now—flushed from wine and firelight, laughing with people who accept her without question—I want to give that to her.
Want to be the person who doesn’t leave.
Even if I don’t know who I am. Even if my past is void and my future uncertain.
The wanting is absolute.
“You do not have hunger?” Dragana’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I realize I’ve been staring at Mara instead of eating.
“I’m watching her,” I say simply. “She was badly hurt. The wine—”
“Will do her no harm.” Dragana’s eyes are sharp. “Your fire saw to that.”
My fire. The words should sound insane.
They don’t.
“You know what happened to her,” I say. Not a question.
“I suspect.” She takes a measured sip of her own wine.
“Then tell me. Help me understand.”
