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“We both know that ye’ve made a muck of yerself more than once in her presence. Ye’re sayin’ this to get a rise out of me, and it isnae gonna happen.”
His smirk widens, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Aye, but one of these days, you’re going to trip over your own stubborn pride and say what you mean. And I’ll be there when it happens—probably with a drink in hand to celebrate the occasion.”
Bran watches me for a beat longer, his smirk lingering but his gaze sharper, more perceptive than ever. He exhales, shaking his head before shifting topics. “Word is there was a bit of a stir earlier.” His tone wavers between mirth and concern, though amusement lingers at the edges of his lips. “Are you well?”
I snort, shaking my head. “Remember that fair-haired, soft-handed perfumed fop I laid flat the other day?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement as he shakes his head knowingly. “Aye, I remember the—what did Callan call him? A lily-livered dandy?” He chuckles, the words rolling off his tongue with exaggerated mockery before he tilts his head at me, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Why? What happened?”
“Callan planted a fist into his face earlier.”
Bran lets out a low chuckle, the sound echoing into the quiet night. I attempt a smile, but it falters, never reaching my eyes. The levity is fleeting. Bran notes this, his laughter dimming as he studies me more closely, unearthing what I strive to conceal.
“Are you going to tell me if you’re all right?” Bran challenges.
I stand unmoving, the burden of the evening pressing against me. I exhale, long and measured. For a moment, I consider my usual deflection—a jest, a dismissive shrug. But tonight, it rings hollow. My jaw tightens, and I release another breath through my nose.
“No,” I admit, the confession rough-edged, unvarnished. “But I must be, aye?”
Bran’s brow furrows, the humour draining entirely from the moment. He steps closer, resting a hand on my shoulder. “There’s no dishonour in acknowledging when things are amiss, Mac.”
“Perhaps not. But at present, I lack the luxury of breakin’.” I shake my head, voice quieter now. “I cannae falter, Bran. For her sake.”
Bran doesn’t push, but the weight of my words hang between us, unspoken truths too heavy to unload in the fleeting moment.
Triona
I stand with my parents, the air heavy with anticipation. Around us, people form a loose circle near the unlit bonfire, their murmurs hushed in the growing darkness. The transition from day’s warmth to night’s mystery feels almost sacred.
A presence shifts at my side. I glance to find Callan lingering nearby, his usually unshakable confidence subdued.
“Triona,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that no one else can hear. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, his fingers moving in a slow, nervous rhythm as if searching for the right words. “About earlier… I was out of line. Shouldna let things get to that point. I’m sorry.”
His words catch me off guard. I hesitate before giving him a small nod. “As you should be.”
“He said things about ye that made my blood boil.”
“If that’s so, I’ll let him tell me. I can handle myself, Callan.”
“Triona—”
“Callan… listen to me. I know you think you mean well, but that anger inside you isn’t doing anyone any favours.” He seems to mull that over and nods.
“I can handle myself, Callan.”
He meets my eyes. “I think ye showed me a bit of that the other day when ye knocked me on my arse.”
I laugh, the tension easing between us. A reluctant smirk tugs at his lips. The moment lingers, a rare instance of unspoken understanding between us.
The sound of footsteps echo through the quiet, measured and deliberate. I know who it is before I turn.
Finn steps closer, his expression resolute, though hesitation shadows his eyes.
“I—” he begins, but I stop him with a gentle shake of my head.
“You don’t have to, Finn.” My voice is sweet when I speak. “I know you were just doing what you thought was best. You don’t owe me an apology.”
Finn’s shoulders relax, though his eyes linger on mine. With a wry tilt of his head, he asks, “How’d you know what I was about to say?”
