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“Earlier. At dinner.” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully, like she’s turning them over first to make sure they’re kind enough to say out loud. “You said you haven’t visited your family in so long, and I know it’s the RSD telling you can’t face them, but now that you know that, from doing therapy I mean, I don’t understand why you still let it keep you from the people who love you?”

Turning my glass slowly between my fingers, I buy a second, contemplating my answer. “Knowing it’s RSD doesn’t switch it off, I know, logically, that it’s my brain lying to me. My therapist’s told me a hundred times. But I still believe it anyway, every single time. It’s exhausting, being smart enough to see the trap and still walking straight into it.”

She reaches over, squeezing my hand—not the quick, sympathetic kind people give when they want you to stop talking, this is slower, steadier, like she’s telling me to hold on rather than let go. She doesn’t fill the silence after. She just stays in it with me, patient enough that I realise she's actively chosen to sit with the ugly parts of me and not flinch.

“So, it’s easier not to go,” I say eventually, quieter now. “Self-preservation, I guess.”

“Self-protection that costs you the people you’re protecting yourself from losing, isn’t really protection at all, is it? That’s just a slower kind of losing them.”

I don’t have an answer for that. But hearing it said so plainly—no softening, no easy reassurance—makes the whole thing click into place, sudden and quiet.

She’s right.

I wait, silently, for the moment she decides this is all a bit much—the RSD, the guilt, the ugly, complicated thing I just handed her—and finds a reason to change the subject, to look away, to leave. It never comes. She sits right beside me, holding my hand, gazing at the fire like she’s got nowhere else to be. Nobody’s ever just… Stayed before. Seen me for me. And somewhere in the quiet after that realisation, I notice I’ve stopped watching the fire entirely, completely transfixed by her.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I’m glad you told me. And I’m still here.”

Warmth seeps through the cracks in my armour as the honesty of her words, her presence, settles the imposter lurking inside me. It doesn’t fix who I am, it just gives me room to breathe, to exist without hiding.

Time passes without either of us really acknowledging it—too deep in conversation and laughter—until there’s a bite to the cold, the fire is dying and our glasses are empty. Bri yawns and stretches beside me. “What time is it?”

I check my phone. “One.”

“We’ve been out here that long?”

“Apparently, although it didn’t feel long at all.”

For a moment we both sit staring at the dying fire like it’s betrayed us.

“I should probably sleep; I need to drive tomorrow.”

“Wise,” I say, standing. I offer her my hand and pull her from the sofa gently, before picking up her boots.

“Such a gentleman.”

“I have my moments, but don’t tell anyone.” I laugh dryly.

She mimes zipping her lips. “Your secret is safe.”

We walk the few steps to her room and she pauses at the door, turning to face me. Her smile infectious. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Bri,” I reply softly, handing over her boots.

And then she’s gone, door clicking shut quietly behind her.

I stand for a moment longer than necessary, hands in my pockets, staring at the woodgrain like it might offer answers before turning to my own room, the courtyard suddenly too quiet.

In bed, I lie awake far longer than I should, staring up at the dark ceiling while my mind replays fragments of Bri over and over again against my will. The sound of her laugh. The way her eyes light up when she talks about her books. The warmth of the firelight against her skin. Every time I start to drift off, another memory surfaces and pulls me right back to her. Laughing. Rolling those impossible eyes at me. Talking about dragons like they actually exist. It’s ridiculous. I barely know her. And yet, somewhere between the whisky and the hours slipping by unnoticed beside that fire, something has shifted.

For the first time in years, I’ve genuinely enjoyed someone’s company without forcing it. No performance or expectations. Just easy conversation, laughter and feeling strangely understood. And the worst part is—I realise with a quiet sort of anticipation curling low in my chest—that I already can’t wait to see her again tomorrow.

Chapter 15

Bri

The morning air is warm beneath the veranda as I curl both hands around my coffee mug, like it might somehow reverse the consequences of too much wine and not enough sleep. My head feels pleasantly fuzzy rather than painful though, which is a blessing considering today will be challenging enough. I stayed up far later than usual as the conversation had been too good to leave.

Smiling faintly to myself, I glance down into my coffee. Jax surprised me last night; he was funny. Really funny, actually. Dry and clever in a way that creeps up on you. He didn’t make me feel awkward or weird either—he was actually really thoughtful and easy to talk to once he relaxed. We ended up talking long after Luna and Lennie disappeared to bed, and I really enjoyed spending time with him, he’s good company.