The fire had taken. Flames licked at the seasoned logs, catching with a crackle that sent sparks spiraling into the dark. The old fire pit behind the grange was ringed with weathered logs, grey from seasons of use, and the heat pushed back against the November chill in a way that made everyone sit closer than they needed to.
Reyen had claimed the far end of the bench, his back to the treeline, his eyes on the flames. The whiskey in his hand was amber and warm, the glass catching the firelight and throwing it back in fractured gold. He hadn't said much since they'd come outside. Didn't need to. The others understood—Nami and Nic on the opposite bench, shoulders touching; Sierra tucked into Kiaan's side, her breath fogging in the cold; Nash by the fire, feeding it with practiced ease, his scarred throat catching the light whenever he leaned forward.
The bottle sat on the log between Reyen's thighs, and he lifted it, poured another two fingers without looking. The whiskey hit the glass and settled, and the fire popped, and the night was quiet in the way only a November night could be—cool and still and waiting.
You look good in firelight.
The voice brushed the edge of his ear, soft as a breath, and Reyen's hand stilled on the glass. He didn't turn. Didn't react. Just let the corner of his mouth lift, slow and private, and raised the glass to his lips.
Don't pretend you don't hear me, she said, and he could hear the smile in it. I know you do. I can feel it when you do.
He took a sip, let the burn settle, and set the glass down on his thigh. The fire crackled. Nash added another log, and the flames jumped, casting new shadows across the clearing.
"You're smiling," Sierra said from across the fire. She was watching him with that knowing look, her chin resting on Kiaan's shoulder. "That's new."
Reyen's smile widened, but he didn't explain. He just shrugged, lifted the glass again, and let the firelight catch his profile. "Maybe I'm enjoying the company."
Are you? Her voice was closer now, almost a whisper against his skin. Tell me what you'd do if I were really there. If I were sitting in your lap right now.
His jaw tightened. He took another sip, slower this time, buying himself a moment.
Would you put your hand on my thigh? The voice was teasing, lilting, full of a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. Or would you wait for me to make the first move? You always did want me to come to you first.
He set the glass down on the log beside him and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He stared into the flames, and his voice, when it came, was low enough that only she could hear it. "You know I'd never make you wait."
Nami looked up at the sound of his voice—murmured, private—but she didn't ask. She just exchanged a glance with Nic, a small knowing thing, and looked back at the fire.
Oh, I know, Navira's voice said, and it was darker now, thicker. I know exactly what you'd do. You'd pull me closer before I finished the sentence. Your hand would slide up, and you'd look at me like you were starving, and you'd tell me exactly what you wanted to do to me.
Reyen's throat moved. He reached for the whiskey, but his hand paused halfway, his fingers curling into his palm instead.
Say it, she whispered. I want to hear you say it.
The fire popped. A spark landed on the stone and died. The others were talking now—Sierra saying something about the cold, Nash offering another log—but the sounds blurred into the crack and hiss of the flames.
Reyen's voice was barely audible, rough at the edges. "I'd kiss you until you forgot everyone else was here."
And then?
He swallowed. "And then I wouldn't let you go until you remembered your own name."
The silence that followed was not empty. It was full—full of her breath, her laughter, the weight of her attention somewhere just beyond his reach. He could feel her, not as a presence he could see, but as a warmth that pressed against the edges of his awareness, familiar and aching.
I love it when you talk like that, she said, and her voice was soft now, almost a sigh. I love how you say my name when you're alone. When you think no one can hear you.
Reyen's grip tightened on his glass. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
I promise you, she said, and the teasing was gone, replaced by something quiet and fierce, when I come back, I'm going to make you say it so many times you forget every other word.
The corner of his mouth lifted again. He shook his head, a small, private motion, and lifted the glass to his lips. "I'm holding you to that."
"Holding yourself to what?" Nash asked, settling onto the bench beside him. He had a bottle of his own—something dark, probably beer—and he leaned back, stretching his legs toward the fire.
Reyen took a slow sip, letting the whiskey burn, and then said, "To a promise."
Nash studied him for a moment, his eyes catching the firelight. He didn't push. He just nodded, a slow, understanding thing, and raised his bottle. "Good promises are worth keeping."
Reyen's smile flickered, and he looked back at the fire. "Yeah."
The fire crackled. The night settled deeper. And somewhere, just beyond the edge of his hearing, he felt her presence—warm, watching, waiting.
I miss you, she said, and her voice was small now, honest in a way that made his chest tighten. I miss the way you smell. The way your hand feels on my back. The way you say my name like it's the only word that matters.
Reyen closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Just to feel her voice without the firelight in the way.
I'll be back before you know it, she said. And when I am, you're going to have to lock the door. Because I'm not going to let you out of bed for a week.
A laugh escaped him—low, surprised, dragged out of his chest before he could stop it. The others glanced over, curiosity flickering in their faces, and he waved them off, still smiling, still shaking his head.
"Sorry," he said, lifting the glass. "Just thought of something funny."
Sierra smiled, slow and knowing, and turned back to the fire. Nami's gaze lingered a moment longer, warm and understanding, and then she too looked away, giving him his privacy.
You laughed, Navira said, and her voice was full of delight. I made you laugh. I'm counting that as a win.
"You always did," he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.
And in the space between heartbeats, he felt her—not as a ghost, not as a voice, but as the weight of a hand that wasn't there, brushing his jaw, tilting his face toward something unseen. The touch was featherlight, imagined or real, he couldn't tell anymore. But he leaned into it anyway, let his head tilt, let his breath catch.
You're so beautiful in firelight, she whispered. I wish I could touch you. I wish I could press my forehead to yours and just breathe.
His hand moved before he thought about it, reaching up, as if to catch the hand that wasn't there. His fingers closed on empty air, and he let them fall, slowly, deliberately, back to his knee.
"Soon," he said, and the word was a promise, a prayer, a plea all at once.
Soon, she echoed. And then, softer: Don't stop talking to me. Even if I can't answer. Keep telling me things. I'll hear them.
Reyen lifted his glass, took a long pull of whiskey, and let the warmth settle in his chest. He looked at the fire, at the faces of the people who had become his family, at the dark silhouette of the estate beyond the trees.
"I've got a lot to tell you," he said, and his voice was rough, raw, honest in a way he rarely let it be. "I don't even know where to start."
Start at the beginning, she said. I've got time.
And somewhere, in the quiet between the fire and the stars, he began to speak.
Nami shifted on the bench, the rough wood pressing through her coat. She'd been watching the fire, letting the heat settle into her bones, but something pulled her attention—a shift in the air, a stillness that didn't belong. Beside her, Sierra went rigid, her breath catching in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
Nami. Sierra.
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, soft as ash settling. Nami's hand tightened on the log beneath her. She didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe, afraid that any sound would shatter the moment.
I need you to do something for me.
Navira's voice—undeniably hers, that particular warmth, that familiar cadence—pressed against Nami's awareness. She felt it in her chest first, a resonance that made her heart ache, and then in her mind, clear as a bell on a winter morning.
Sierra's hand found hers in the dark. Squeezed once. An acknowledgment. A confirmation that she heard it too.
Look after Reyen for me.
Nami's throat tightened. She turned her head slowly, just enough to see Sierra's profile—the firelight catching the worry in her brow, the way her lips pressed together thin and white.
He's hurting. He won't let anyone see it. But I know he's hurting.
The voice trembled on the last word, and Nami felt her eyes sting. She blinked hard, forced the heat back, and squeezed Sierra's hand in return.
I can't be there yet. But you can. You're his family now. All of you. Don't let him disappear into that darkness alone.
Silence fell between them. The fire popped, a log settling, and the sound seemed louder than it should. Nami looked across the clearing at Reyen. He sat at the far end of the bench, his back straight, his hand wrapped around the glass of whiskey. He was speaking—she could see his lips moving, low and unhurried—but no one else was listening. Nash was tending the fire, Nic watching the flames, Kiaan's arm draped loose around Sierra's shoulders.
He looked alone, even surrounded.
Promise me, Navira said, and the plea was raw now, honest in a way that made Nami's breath catch. Promise me you'll keep him here. Keep him whole until I get back.
Nami opened her mouth, but no sound came. She nodded instead, a small jerky motion, and felt Sierra's nails press into her palm.
"We promise," Sierra whispered, her voice cracked and low.
The warmth in Nami's chest deepened—a presence, a pressure, a kiss pressed to the inside of her ribs.
Thank you.
And then it was gone. The space where Navira had been felt empty, hollow, like a room that had just lost its last candle. Nami exhaled, long and slow, and realized she'd been holding her breath.
She turned to look at Sierra. Sierra's eyes were wet, catching the firelight, but her jaw was set. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and gave a small, tight smile.
"She always did know how to ruin a perfectly good bonfire," Sierra said, her voice rough.
Nami laughed—a short, surprised sound that cracked on the way out. "Yeah. She did."
They sat in silence for a moment, hands still clasped between them. The fire crackled on. Nash added another log, and the flames leaped higher, casting new shadows across the clearing.
"What do we do?" Sierra asked, her voice low.
Nami looked at Reyen again. He was quiet now, staring into the flames, the glass of whiskey loose in his hand. His shoulders were straight, his spine rigid, as if he were holding himself together by sheer force of will. She could see it now—the tension in his jaw, the way his thumb pressed into the glass just a little too hard, the set of his mouth that never quite relaxed.
He was hurting. And he was doing everything he could to make sure no one noticed.
"We do what she asked," Nami said. She released Sierra's hand and stood, brushing the dust from her jeans. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she barely felt it. "We make sure he doesn't disappear."
Sierra rose beside her, and together they crossed the clearing. The others looked up—Nic with a quiet question in his eyes, Kiaan tilting his head, Nash pausing mid-stoke—but Nami just shook her head once, a small gesture that said not yet, and they let it pass.
She sat down on the log beside Reyen, close enough that her shoulder almost touched his. Sierra settled on his other side, folding her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed on the fire.
Reyen glanced at them, one eyebrow lifting. "Protective detail?"
"Something like that," Nami said. She reached for the whiskey bottle at his feet, poured a splash into the empty glass Nash had left, and raised it to the stars. "To promises worth keeping."
Reyen's expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or something softer he wouldn't name—and then he touched his glass to hers. The clink was soft, swallowed by the night.
"To promises," he echoed.
They drank. The fire crackled. And for a moment, just a moment, the hollow space in Nami's chest felt a little less empty.
She settled into the rhythm of the flames, the quiet murmur of voices, the weight of the night pressing down around them. Sierra leaned into Kiaan again, her hand finding his in the dark. Nic stretched his legs, and Nash passed the bottle. The ease was fragile, held together by grief and hope and the stubborn refusal to let the fire die.
And in the space between the stars, Nami felt Navira's presence—not as a voice, not as a touch, but as a warmth that said thank you one last time before it folded itself into the dark.