Page 16 of Firefly Nights

"I'm trying to protect you."

"From what? From caring about someone who might leave? Too late." Her voice catches. "From getting hurt? Also too late. From having to trust that sometimes reality can be better than fiction? Because that's what you've been teaching me, Nathan. Every day, with every practical solution and careful repair, you've been showing me that real life can be magical too."

"Grace, I—" I stop, lost for words in a way that never happens with building plans and material lists.

"You know what I realized?" She steps closer still, and it takes everything in me not to reach for her. "I've been so busy planning around goodbyes that I never gave anyone a realreason to stay. And you've been so busy running that you never learned how to build something permanent for yourself."

A whole constellation of fireflies has emerged around us now, their lights dancing like stars fallen to earth. Like the ones I carved in her reading corner, meant to guide her home.

"I'm not good at permanent," I manage.

"And I'm not good at uncertainty. Guess we'll have to figure it out together." She tilts her head, studying me in the gathering dark. "Unless you're too scared to try something that's not in your blueprints."

"That's not fair."

"Neither is leaving before giving this a chance."

"A chance at what?"

"At writing our own story." She reaches out, touches my arm lightly. "One without margin space for goodbyes or escape routes built into the foundation."

I look down at her hand on my arm, at all the calluses and pencil smudges that tell our different stories. "I don't know how to stay," I admit quietly.

"And I don't know how to stop planning for disasters." A smile tugs at her lips. "But I'm willing to learn if you are."

My phone rings, shattering the moment. Mike's name lights up the screen.

Grace steps back, wrapping her arms around herself. "You should get that."

"Nathan." Mike's voice crackles through the speaker. "Tell me you're in. The board meets in an hour, and they need an answer on the theater contract."

I turn away from Grace's too-bright eyes. "I thought I had until?—"

"They moved up the timeline. Look, this is huge, exactly what you've been working toward. But they won't hold it. I need an answer now."

Through the phone, I hear the shuffle of papers, voices in the background. A real opportunity. A clear path forward.

Behind me, a firefly dances past, reminding me of another path—one without blueprints or guarantees.

"Nathan?" Two voices—Mike's through the phone, Grace's so soft I barely hear it.

"I'll call you back." I end the call, but can't quite turn around.

"Go." Grace's voice is steady, but I know her tells now. "You have decisions to make."

"Grace—"

She takes a shaky breath. "Just make sure you're running toward something this time, not away from it."

I spot her silhouette in the meadow before I've even parked my truck. Of course she's still here. Grace Lawson, who believes in stories enough for both of us, wouldn't leave until she reached the end of this one.

The telescope case bumps against my leg as I make my way through the tall grass. I found it three weeks ago in that antique shop off Main, buried under a stack of old maps. The brass was tarnished, the focus mechanism stuck, the tripod wobbly. But I could see what it could be. What it wanted to be.

Kind of like me, maybe.

Grace doesn't turn when I approach, but her shoulders tense. She's tracking the first evening stars appearing in the violet sky, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding something fragile together.

"The Burlington theater board meets in ten minutes," I say quietly.

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