It hurts, but I don’t stop.
When the last video fades to black, the room feels hollow again. The only sound is the crackle of the fire and the wind pressing against the glass.
I pour another drink and sit back, eyes burning.
Claire’s laughter lingers in my ears long after the screen went dark.
People tell you grief dulls with time. They don’t tell you that it changes shape. That it moves quieter, waits for the moments you think you’re safe, then breathes down your neck.
Outside, a fox cries somewhere in the woods. I close my eyes and let the sound echo.
I imagine she’s still here—paint under her nails, head resting on my shoulder, humming some tune I’ve forgotten.
Then the fire snaps, pulling me back to now.
I take a long sip of bourbon and whisper into the empty room, “Miss you, Claire.”
The flames answer with a low hiss, like they understand.
I let myself feel it—all of it. The ache, the love, the silence after.
CHAPTER TEN
Norah
Wren leans closer,her pumpkin-shaped headband bobbing. “He’s looking at you.”
I don’t have to ask who. The moment she says it, I can feel it like a prickle at the back of my neck, an awareness that hums just under my skin.
The hall is glowing. Literally. Amber string lights loop from beam to beam, catching on the black flowers.
The air smells like cinnamon, cider, and candle wax. Every table is draped in black lace, pumpkins spilling with flowers sitting in the middle.
It’s loud, happy, packed. Someone managed to convince the high school band to play spooky jazz covers in the corner, and honestly, they’re killing it.
I glance toward the far end of the room where Dorian James stands near the punch table. He’s in a dark gray suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.
His sleeves are rolled up, hair’s slightly tousled, and he’s got that effortless polish that makes everyone else look underdressed.
He looks good. Of course he does.
And he’s keeping a solid ten-foot radius between us, which I appreciate. After everything, I don’t need him orbiting too close. Not when my body still hums with the kind of awareness I can’t entirely blame on caffeine or stress.
“Wren,” I mutter, taking a sip of eggnog. “Stop narrating my life.”
“I’m not narrating,” she says, grinning. “I’m observing. And that man has been staring since you walked in.”
“He’s not staring.”
“He’s literally facing this way. He hasn’t moved in five minutes.”
I groan, turning slightly so my back is toward him. “Maybe he’s staring at the bar.”
“Maybe,” she says, smirking. “Or maybe he’s staring at the woman who made this entire place look like a haunted dream sequence. Everyone’s talking about it, by the way. You crushed it.”
She’s right about that part. Every time I turn, someone else is gushing about the transformation. The mayor stopped by earlier to thank me personally, Jude’s crew got a standing ovation, and even Brighton’s wife cornered me to ask for my business card.
I wish Jude and Ryker were here to see it. It feels wrong without them—the hall might look perfect, but the balance feels off.
