But when she lifts her eyes and meets mine across the drifting haze, it isn’t the sky that makes my breath stall.
It’s the look.
She knows I saw him falter.
She knows I saw her steady him.
She knows I saw the shift.
For a second I imagine crossing the distance. Stepping into that orbit while the smoke still hangs thick and the crowd is distracted. Standing close enough to feel the heat coming off both. Close enough to test whether that alignment would widen or hold.
The thought lands hard enough that my hands flex at my sides.
I don’t move.
The last explosion blooms overhead, so bright it bleaches color from everything below. Ash drifts down in soft gray flakes, settling on shoulders and hair and the hoods of parked trucks.
They turn together this time.
He keeps his hand at her back as they move through the dispersing crowd, guiding without looking like he’s guiding. She lets him.
I stand where I am until the smoke thins and the harbor goes dark again.
The sky erupts into the finale. White fire raining down over the harbor, the reflection turning the water into molten glass. For a moment, I imagine stepping into that orbit. Not to replace. Not to intrude. To steady. To hold the edges of what they’re rediscovering and make sure it doesn’t fracture again under its own intensity.
Melanie looks back at me through the drifting haze like she knows I saw more than most.
I don’t smile. I don’t nod. I hold her gaze long enough for her to understand something unspoken.
The final explosion cracks the night open and fades into drifting ash.
The crowd begins to disperse.
When Melanie turns to guide Daniel away from the crowd, her eyes lift and catch mine across the smoke.
The wind carries the smoke toward the trees.
And I stand there longer than necessary, listening to the quiet that follows.
Mel
By the time the last fireworks fade into smoke, the yard smells like gunpowder and grilled food.
People drift toward the fire pit in loose groups. Someone drags a cooler closer. Sam settles onto the low bench with his guitar and starts a slow, steady rhythm. I recognize the opening chords of “Back in the Water.” Henry leans against the back of the bench at first, watching him with that small, quiet smile he saves for Sam alone.
My throat aches because once Dan and I had that same intimacy. I start clearing the folding tables because standing still feels too obvious. Paper plates stack under my hands. Empty bottles clink together.
Across the yard, Dan stays near the fire pit with Tom beside him. The man has one boot propped on the wooden edge of the pit, talking with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly where he belongs. Dan listens with his head slightly bent toward him, and his shoulders have dropped. The rigid line that usually sits across the back of his neck is gone. He laughs at something Tom says and the sound carries across the yard.
I haven’t heard that version of his laugh in years. The one that reaches his eyes. The one that softens the lines around them.
Sam shifts on the bench and starts the second verse. Henry joins him without hesitation, his voice sliding easily beneath Sam’s melody. Their voices fit together in a way that feels practiced but not rehearsed, like breathing in sync. People around the fire grow quieter as the song settles over the yard. Sam sings the chorus and Henry carries the harmony. The fire pops softly between us. Somewhere behind me a bottle cap hits the ground.
The music makes the whole night feel slower. Softer.
I shake myself and carry the stack of plates toward the trash bin. When I turn back, Dan is watching the flames. Tom has moved away.
I step beside him.
