The fire is already crackling, sending sparks up into the darkening sky. Guitar music drifts across the water. I can see the familiar shapes of people I’ve known for years, clustered around the flames with drinks and laughter.
The Bennett sisters spot us first.
“Well, well, well,” the older one says, her voice carrying that particular tone of delighted vindication. “Look who finally stopped pretending.”
The younger sister grins. “I told you it was only a matter of time.”
Mr. Calloway looks up from his lawn chair, his weathered face creasing into a smile. “About damn time, if you ask me. That fake dating nonsense was painful to watch.”
Heat floods my face. “You all knew?”
“Sweetheart,” Maggie says from her spot near the fire, “everyone knew. Rex is a terrible actor when it comes to romance. He kept forgetting to look at you like he was in love.”
“I thought he did fine,” I protest weakly.
The older Bennett sister laughs. “He called you ‘bro’ twice in one conversation while supposedly being your boyfriend. It was adorable, but not convincing.”
Muir’s hand tightens slightly on my back, not possessive, just present. He’s trying not to laugh.
“Rex tried,” the younger Bennett sister says generously. “He really did. But you,” she points at me, “you were terrible at it. You looked like you were being held hostage every time someone asked about your relationship.”
“I did not?—”
“You absolutely did,” Mr. Calloway says. “The only person who believed it might be real was probably Rex himself, and that’s only because he loves you enough to pretend anything you need him to pretend.”
The warmth in my chest expands. They’re teasing, but there’s so much affection underneath it. This is what Harmony Glen does. It sees you, knows you, and loves you anyway.
Maggie raises her beer. “To Cora and Muir. May they never attempt fake dating again, because they’re both terrible at it.”
Everyone laughs and drinks. Muir’s thumb traces a small circle on my back.
“For the record,” he says quietly, just to me, “I would have believed you were dating Rex. You’re very convincing when you want to be.”
“Liar,” I whisper back.
“Absolutely,” he agrees, and kisses my temple.
The evening unfolds in easy conversation. Someone asks about the eco-tours. Someone else wants to know if the chain pickerel population is recovering. The guitar player starts a new song, and people drift closer to the fire as the night cools.
Then Mateo, who organized the bonfire, looks over at me. “Cora, will you sing for us?”
The request hangs in the air. I’ve sung at dozens of bonfires over the years. It’s become expected, part of the rhythm of summer evenings in Harmony Glen. But this time is different.
I look at Muir. He’s watching me with those grey-green eyes, patient and steady, waiting for whatever I choose.
“Yes,” I say.
I move closer to the fire. The guitar player shifts to a softer melody, giving me space to find my entry point. I close my eyes and let the first note rise.
It’s a kundiman, one of the old songs my mother taught me, about longing and homecoming and love that endures. But underneath the Tagalog lyrics, my sirena frequency rises, unmanaged and raw. Every note is for him.
The bonfire goes quiet. Four years of absence. Four years of grief. And now: joy. Relief. The particular ache of finding something you thought was lost forever.
When I open my eyes, Muir is standing at the edge of the firelight. His expression is open in a way I’ve never seen, no careful control, no restraint. Just him, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
I finish the song. The last note hangs in the air, resonating across the water.
No one speaks for a long moment.