Page 58 of Embers of Midnight
“Now there’s you,” he says. He doesn’t rush it. “You boiled a river and still said please to doors. The four of us saw it and adjusted faster than we meant to. For the first time since Grayson, quietdoesn’t feel like punishment.” His thumb traces a small circle over my knuckles. It is not a trick. It is an anchor.
Honesty sits low and warm in my stomach and scares me more than any compliment. “I kept a bag packed for most of my life,” I admit. “Three shirts, a toothbrush, and the paperback that made the day less ugly. I still reach for it in my head, and it isn’t there.”
“That can be all right,” he says. “You’re allowed to forget the escape routes. We’ll remember them until you want them back.”
That gentleness is the thing that almost breaks me. I breathe slow until the sting behind my eyes behaves. “What was Grayson like?” I ask.
“Too brave for rooms with ceilings,” he says, and a quick smile appears and stays. “He taught me the names of every market scent in Umbros so I couldn’t pretend the world was small. He dragged me out of dinners to watch the ferries on the night river. He said people are maps. You only have to learn which lines are roads and which are borders.” The smile folds, not gone. “He would have liked you.”
“Dangerous praise,” I say, trying for light.
“Accurate,” he says. He shifts closer by a fraction. Our shoulders line up. Heat settles where we touch.
“Umbros sounds like a machine,” I say. “You stepped out of it.”
“I did,” he says. “Sometimes leaving is the only way to keep loving the thing you left.”
I nod. The wind lifts, then drops. “I wanted a door that stays open,” I tell him. “Breakfast that isn’t a loan. A room that fits me because it was built to.”
“And?” His voice is careful now, like a cup filled to the rim.
“I think I found the hallway,” I say. “Maybe even the light switch.”
He laughs once, low. “We can handle hallways and light switches.”
“We are terrible at metaphors,” I mutter.
He tips his forehead to mine. There is no rush. “Sera,” he says, and my name in his mouth unclenches every muscle in my neck. “I am sure. We go at your speed. We keep this real.”
“Real is nonnegotiable,” I say. “So is slow.”
“Done.” He doesn’t turn it into a contract. He leaves it as a promise.
We lean in at the same time. Warm breath. The faintest brush of lips—
—and the bell detonates above us. We jolt, catch each other’s sleeves, and then start laughing because the sound rolls through the tower and straight through my ribs.
“Rude bell,” I say when the boards finally stop humming.
“Jealous bell,” he says, breathless. “We’ll try again when the tower has learned boundaries.”
“Add it to the list.” I don’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t let go of mine.
We lie back under the blanket, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a cup and a skyline I’m still learning. He tells me about a market in Umbros that sells spices so strong grown men cry and promises to take me when. Not if. When. I tell him about the first time I made a perfect diner pancake and kept it under the heat lamp like a trophy nobody knew to congratulate. He calls that tragic and vows to fix it.
The wind lifts. He pulls the blanket over me like he’s been doing it all his life. I don’t comment. My hands find his under the blanket and stay there. We breathe. The campus lights below us wink on and off as people move. The sky shows stars I don’t know the names for yet. It feels like being allowed to be quiet without paying for it later.
When the air gets cold enough to bite ears, we pack up. He tucks the thermos into the basket and offers me the ride down the shadow like he offered his hand earlier. I say yes again. The floor under us becomes stone and then corridor. The house is warmwhen we step in. The hallway smells like soap and something garlicky.
At my door, we stop. It’s quiet enough I can hear his breath and mine and the tiny click of a clock I haven’t seen yet.
“Thank you,” he says. Serious now. “For telling me things that hurt to tell.”
“Thank you for bribing the bell tower gods,” I say, and then, softer, “and for the almost.”
He kisses my cheek. Slow, warm, nothing performative. It’s not a test. It’s a promise with room to grow. “Goodnight, Little Flame.”
“Goodnight,” I manage. My face is molten. My chest feels like someone finally opened a window.
