We stay out there for hours. Laughing. Drinking. Letting stories unravel in the safety of each other’s company. They let me in on the memories and mischief alike. I don’t feel like an outsider looking in, but a trusted ally being brought into the fold.
Vale’s arms come around me from behind, and I ease back into him just as Ace—wide-eyed and dramatic—launches into a story about the time he got caught naked behind a shrub by the groundskeeper.
“I knew exactly which tree I hung my trousers on before swimming, but when I got out… gone! You know I’m not shy, but I really did try to be careful sneaking back inside.”
I laugh, maybe harder than I have in months, as he mimics covering himself and tiptoeing across the lawn. Even Vale rises, standing beside him to play the role of the startled groundskeeper, wide-eyed and scandalized.
Any walls I’d held up… they fall. Fear still flickers at the edges—always does—but for now, I let myself feel it. The joy. The love. The light.
Which may be why what happens next catches me so off guard.
It’s innocuous enough. The fun doesn’t stop. But as the pyre shifts—sticks collapsing inward to crash against the roaring logs below—something inside me cracks open too.
The sharp groan of timber pulls me under.
Screams. Crashing beams. Fire.
Terror.
My chest tightens in a vise. Every breath slices shallow and frantic. My whole body goes taut with the need to run. Whether from danger or toward it, I can’t tell.
I just know I can’t stay still.
I bolt upright. The others look at me, expecting I’ll join the revelry again.
But whatever they see in my face washes the joy away.
“I’m… I’m suddenly very tired,” I lie, each word brittle. “I’m going to bed. You all stay. Enjoy the evening.”
I turn and walk away as calmly as I can manage. My steps feel jagged. My hands tremble by the time I reach the chamber door.
The knob won’t turn.
I press my forehead to the wood. Tears well. My chest jerks with each breath, shallow and strained. I’m fighting for air and losing.
Ragged, sharp, and piercing as I try to fill my lungs. Every response in my body out of sorts, my mind warped and overwhelmed.
Then—Vale.
One hand settles high above my head, planted on the doorframe. He doesn’t pull me in. Doesn’t crowd me.
He just stands there.
A shield against the world. A silent question.
“Mira, love,” his voice murmurs low behind me. “What is it?”
I just shake my head, still grappling to make sense of what triggered inside me as the fire began to fall in on itself.
I reach for the handle again, craving the solitude on the other side of the door. Vale moves before I can try again, gently opening it for me. He doesn’t cage me in—just holds the space. Watching. Waiting. As I enter the room, he stays in the doorway while I pace, frantic and lost in it.
“I’m sorry,” I cry, the words rushing out. “I didn’t mean to ruin the evening. I didn’t mean to…” He steps forward. “The fire—when it—I just…” The thoughts won’t hold shape. The memories surge, unformed but heavy. I can’t speak them, and I can’t push them away.
“Breathe with me,” he says, his voice steady. His eyes find mine—even as they flit around the room, searching for escape—and he inhales slowly, his hand lifting in a gentle rhythm to guide me. Exhaling, he brushes his fingers over my arm—light, calming, never imposing.
I start to find my breath again and wipe the tears from my cheeks.
“What good can I do?” The question breaks free without warning. No lead-in. No preamble.
