“With Boone,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Especially with Boone.”
Before I can ask anything else, he turns and vanishes into the press of bodies, already elsewhere, already done with me.
I stand there for a long moment, then let out a shaky laugh. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear the Wendigo was keeping tabs on me.
Okay. Sure.I snort.
When Boone finally returns, I spot him before he sees me. He looks tired and focused and unfortunately wound tight again.
I lift a hand and wave. His head snaps up immediately, eyes finding mine with uncanny precision. The relief that crosses his face is so naked it steals my breath.
I don’t wait for him to come to me. I close the distance, slide my arms around him, and press my forehead to his chest. He wraps me up without hesitation, holding me like he’s been bracing for impact.
“Everything okay?” I ask quietly.
He exhales against my hair. “It is now.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “We need to talk.”
“I know,” he says.
“But not right now,” I add, because despite everything—the undercurrent of unease, the unanswered questions—I’m still very much alive in this moment.
He studies me, then nods. “Not right now.”
We stand together, the festival roaring around us, joy and danger braided so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I let myself feel both.
By the time the sun begins to tilt toward late afternoon, the festival feels like it’s found its true rhythm. I seriously can’t wait until the Solstice.
The early arrivals have settled. The frantic setup energy has smoothed into quiet anticipation, like a long inhale held just shy of release. Everywhere I look, there’s movement with purpose—creatures greeting old friends, humans comparing notes, performers tuning instruments that hum back at them in recognition.
Boone keeps me close.
Not in the hovering, cagey way that had grated on me earlier in the week, but with a steadiness that feels intentional rather than reactive. His hand finds mine again as we walk, fingers warm and sure, a quiet anchor I lean into without thinking.
I don’t miss the way his gaze keeps sweeping the crowd.
I also don’t call him on it.
We stop at another food stall, this one run by a pair of cryptids who look like living embers—heat shimmering faintly off their skin, voices crackling with laughter. Boone orders for both of us without asking, and I let him, amused. The food is rich and smoky and leaves my lips tingling pleasantly.
“See?” I say around a bite. “Worth trusting the locals.”
He huffs. “I never doubted the locals. I doubted your enthusiasm.”
“My enthusiasm is a gift,” I inform him solemnly.
He snorts, tension easing another notch.
As evening creeps closer, the performances shift again. The drum circles grow deeper, slower, rhythms syncing across clearings until it feels like the entire park is pulsing with a single, massive heartbeat. Lights appear—soft glows, flickers of bioluminescence, runes that illuminate paths without casting harsh shadows.
We pause near a rise overlooking one of the main gathering areas. From here, the scale of it all finally hits me.
This isn’t just a festival. It’s a declaration.
