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He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and held it up to her. “Would you like a drink?”
Evelyn nodded, noticing the glass by his chair. Cyrus poured her one, handing it to her.
“It’s not honeysuckle wine, but it should help with the nerves after your nightmare,” he said.
“Thank you.” The liquid reflected the orange hues of the fire and the pearly glint of the moon behind her.
Cyrus brought over another chair, setting it beside his. They sat, the tension between them as evident as the battling warmth of the fire inside and the cold outside.
“We did well today,” Evelyn said, twirling the whiskey, amber and warm, like the eyes she felt staring at her.
“You did well,” he said.
“It was your plan.” Evelyn met his gaze.
“A plan you executed flawlessly.”
Evelyn raised a brow and took her first sip of whiskey. It burned as it ran down her throat, a soothing warmth, like a fiery caramel. No, it was no honeysuckle wine, but she found she enjoyed it as much.
“Like I said, we. Your plan, my skills,” she said. “You know, I think we make quite a team.”
The words tumbled out of her, like a small part begged to admit it.
Cyrus gave a short laugh. “That we do.”
She faced him, obsidian hair catching in the evening breeze and twirling around her face. “What’s funny?”
“You wanted nothing to do with me in the beginning, didn’t even want to work together.” Cyrus sipped his whiskey, staring up at the moon.
Evelyn laughed. “And here we are.”
“Here we are.” Evelyn swore she heard a bit of sadness in his tone. He sighed. “I suppose you won’t tell me what your nightmare was about.”
There seemed no reason to withhold the information. “The night my parents died.”
Cyrus looked away from the moon and searched her face. “I see. Do you get them often?”
Evelyn sipped her whiskey and shook her head. “No, only when I’m desperately tired.”
He nodded, twirling his own glass.
They sat in silence for a little while, the moon above them, the fire crackling beside them, their whiskeys dwindling.
“What are you thinking?” Evelyn asked.
“About you,” Cyrus said. “And all your secrets.” He downed the rest of his whiskey.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Cyrus turned to her. “For what?”
She didn’t meet his gaze. “For my secrets, for holding back.”
Cyrus sighed, sitting up and leaning his forearms on his knees. “It doesn’t bother me like it used to.”
“Why not?”
Cyrus shrugged. “I suppose we all have secrets. What and when and how you tell me pieces of yourself is up to you.” He rose. “More whiskey?”
