She leans against the porch railing, cradling a ceramic mug between her hands, steam curling in the crisp evening air. The golden light from the sun catches in her waist length curls, casting a halo around her face. Mo has always had an effortless beauty—striking in a way that feels almost otherworldly. She’s practically glowing and I do not want to know what the cause of that could be.

She’s watching us before we even park, her dark eyes sharp, assessing. She sees everything. Always has. And when I shift into park and step out of the truck, she takes one look at my face and knows immediately that things aren’t right.

“Mo—” I start, but the words tangle in my throat.

Shaking my head I look down at the thing that can potentially have all the answers and her gaze follows mine.

To the bottle in my hands.

The color drains from her face.

The mug slips from her fingers, ceramic shattering against the wood of the porch. Hot tea spills across the worn planks, seeping into the cracks, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

It’s like time stops.

And in the silence that follows, the truth settles between us.

This bottle isn’t just a relic of the past.

It’s a question.

And we’re about to find out the answer.

21

Theo

Orion is the first to move. He steps back inside, returning shortly with a broom and dustpan. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t make a snide remark, or brush off the moment like he usually would. Instead, he crouches down, carefully sweeping the shards into the dustpan, his movements deliberate and patient.

Mo is still frozen in place, her bare feet inches from the broken ceramic. She doesn’t seem to notice—her wide eyes are locked on the bottle like it’s a ghost.

I shift uncomfortably, my fingers tightening around the cool metal. She looks like she’s somewhere else entirely, somewhere distant.

Orion sighs, and in a move that stuns everyone, he sets the broom and dustpan aside and reaches for her.

“Come here, Firefly,” he murmurs, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

She blinks like she’s coming back to herself, but before she can react, he slips an arm around her waist and lifts her off the ground like she weighs nothing. She lets out a quiet sound of surprise, hands pressing lightly against his shoulders, but she doesn’t fight him.

“Orion—”

“Just hold still,” he mutters, carrying her a few steps back, away from the shards, before setting her down gently. His hands linger for a moment, steadying her. “You could’ve cut yourself.” His tone is gruff, but there’s no real bite to it. More like concern wrapped in rough edges. His fingers brush against her long waves, smoothing them absentmindedly before he pulls away.