We walk in silence broken only by forest sounds—birds calling spring songs, wind moving through new leaves, distant laughter from other couples. The quiet feels comfortable instead of awkward, companionable rather than empty.
The final clearing opens ahead, larger than previous spaces and clearly designed as a gathering point. A carved leprechaun statue sits at the center surrounded by scattered "treasures"—polished stones, wooden toys, ribbons in festival colors. All meaningless except for what they represent.
Shared experience. Partnership joy. Time spent together instead of alone.
I realize with sudden clarity that I'm sad this is the last day. That tomorrow there won't be scheduled challenges bringing me and Falla together, forcing us into proximity and partnership. That I'll have to figure out what we are without festival structure guiding us.
That I might lose this feeling of safety and lightness and being more than my trauma.
"Ressa." Falla's voice pulls me from spiraling thoughts. "You alright?"
"Yeah, I just—" The honesty comes easier than expected. "It's been nice to have something take my mind off my memories. To get out of the cabin. I hate this is the last day."
He looks at me softly. "That doesn't mean you have to go back to how things were."
I want to ask him if that means we won't either. I haven't been sure if I'll see him every day after this. Or if our one kiss means anything.
I'm so nervous—and so bad with words—that I respond by pushing up on my toes. My lips meet his, and I'm glad he doesn't pull away as I kiss him. This kiss tastes like promise and patience and someone who's willing to take time learning what I need.
My hands fist in his shirt to pull him closer. The wooden frog digs into my hip from my pocket but I don't care, too focused on the way Falla tastes and feels and the safety of his arms around me.
Safe. That's what this is. What he is.
The person who helps me become myself again.
We break apart eventually, breathless and smiling. Falla rests his forehead against mine, his breathing unsteady.
"We should get back," he murmurs. "Feast's starting soon."
"Don't want to."
His laugh rumbles through his chest. "Me either. But if we don't show up, Ursik will assume we got lost and organize a search party."
"Would he actually?"
"Absolutely. He's dramatic like that."
I step back reluctantly, my hand finding Falla's and twining our fingers together. "Then I guess we should go. Before Ursik decides we need rescuing from leprechauns."
We make our way back toward the base, the path easier to navigate now that we're not searching for checkpoints. Other couples emerge from the trees around us—Kai and Saela looking pleased with themselves, Ursik and Kerra arguing good-naturedly about navigation choices.
The central base opens ahead where cooking fires already burn bright. Tables arranged in a large circle, clan members gathering with the easy familiarity of people who've celebrated together for generations.
Shae spots us first, waving us over to where she's claimed spaces near the main fire. Saela's already there with Kai, bothof them looking relaxed and happy. Bronn stands talking with Drogath about something that requires dramatic hand gestures—probably festival symbolism or ritual significance.
We settle onto the benches and I realize I'm still holding Falla's hand. That everyone can see. That I don't care who knows we're together now.
That I'm not hiding anymore.
Saela catches my eye and smiles, the expression carrying warmth and understanding and genuine happiness for me. She reaches over and squeezes my free hand briefly before turning back to her conversation with Kai.
The feast begins with Drogath standing to deliver closing remarks about partnership and prosperity and the sacred meaning of seven days spent strengthening bonds. His voice carries across the gathering with practiced ceremony.
I lean into Falla's shoulder and he shifts to accommodate me, his arm coming around to hold me steady. The fire crackles, sending sparks skyward into a darkening evening. Around us, the clan celebrates—laughter and conversation creating harmony from individual voices.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel like I belong.
17
