Chapter 11
CORA
The next bonfire happens three nights later.
We arrive together, no pretense, no careful distance, just Muir’s hand at the small of my back as we walk down the shore path toward the gathering.
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.
Then the older Bennett sister says softly, “Well. I guess that settles that.”
The spell breaks. People applaud, but it’s gentle, reverent. They know what they just witnessed.
Muir crosses to me. His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing.
“That was,” he stops, starts again, “you’re extraordinary.”
“I know,” I say, and he laughs.
The evening continues, but now people approach us differently. Not with questions or teasing, but with warmth. With welcome.
A massive shadow moves through the firelight, and I look up to see Roarke approaching. Seven feet of lion-man, his mane catching the firelight in shades of gold and amber. Beside him, Liana, a little taller than me, curvy and strong, her black hair in its usual braid-wrapped bun.
“Muir,” I say, “this is Roarke and Liana. Roarke’s the town vet. Liana is the reason I don’t starve.”
Roarke extends a massive hand. “Good to meet you properly. I’ve heard a lot.”
Muir shakes it without hesitation. “All terrible, I’m sure.”
“Some of it,” Roarke says mildly. “But Cora’s singing just now cleared up most questions.”
Liana steps forward and, without preamble, hugs me. “I’m glad,” she says quietly in my ear. Then she releases me and turns to Muir. “You hurt her again, and Roarke won’t be the one you need to worry about.”
“Understood,” Muir says seriously.
“Good.” She smiles. “Now that’s settled, have you eaten? I brought lumpia for the pot luck.”
Before Muir can answer, there’s a commotion near the edge of the gathering. A blue shape hurtles through the darkness, wings flapping enthusiastically but without much coordination.
Nugget lands in a graceless tumble, sending sand flying. He’s about the size of a pony, all scales and enthusiasm and zero sense of personal space.
“Nugget, gentle,” Roarke says, but the baby dragon is already bounding toward us.
He stops in front of Muir, tilting his head with intense curiosity. Then, before anyone can stop him, he attempts to perch on Muir’s shoulder.
“Nugget, no,” Liana starts.
But Muir just adjusts his stance, bracing himself as several hundred pounds of baby dragon clambers onto him. Nugget settles with a satisfied chirp, his tail wrapping around Muir’s waist for balance.
“Hello,” Muir says calmly, as if this is perfectly normal. “You must be Nugget.”
The dragon chirps again, nuzzling against Muir’s neck.
“He likes you,” Roarke observes. “That’s rare. He usually only does that with Liana and me.”
“I’m honored,” Muir says. He reaches up to scratch under Nugget’s chin, and the dragon makes a sound like a purring earthquake.
I watch this, Muir covered in baby dragon, completely unfazed, gentle and steady, and something in my chest cracks open even wider.
Others approach throughout the evening. People who remember Muir from four years ago, offering cautious welcomes that warm into genuine pleasure as the night goes on.
People who never met him but have heard the stories, curious and kind.
The town folds him back in, not with fanfare, but with the quiet acceptance that Harmony Glen does best.
By the time the fire burns low, Muir has been adopted by half the gathering. Nugget is asleep on his shoulder. Liana has fed him three times. Mr. Calloway has told him the entire history of the lake’s fish population.
I catch his eye across the fire. He’s smiling, not the careful, controlled expression I’ve seen all summer, but something open and real.
Home, I think. He’s home.
When the bonfire starts to break up, we help clean, folding chairs, dousing embers, making sure nothing gets left on the beach. Nugget wakes long enough to fly back to Roarke and Liana’s place, his wings working slightly better than before.
Then it’s just us, walking along the shore path in the moonlight.
“Thank you,” Muir says quietly.
“For what?”
“For letting them see us. For singing. For,” he stops, “for giving me this.”
I take his hand. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“The sandbar.”
His fingers tighten on mine. “Cora—”
“It’s been a while,” is all I say.
We stop by my house long enough to grab a beach blanket. Then we take the water taxi across the dark lake, the motor purring softly, the moon painting everything silver.
The sandbar rises from the water like an island, a shallow shelf of soft sand surrounded by deep water on all sides. Private. Perfect.
I spread the blanket on the sand where the water just laps at the edges. The night is warm, the air soft against my skin. Muir stands at the edge of the blanket, watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“Come here,” I say.
He does.
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that starts gentle and deepens into something desperate. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, and I open for him. He tastes like lake water and smoke from the bonfire and something that’s purely him.
We sink onto the blanket together, his weight pressing me into the soft sand beneath. Every point of contact, his chest against mine, his hips settling between my thighs, the hard length of him already straining against his shorts.
“I’ve missed you,” he breathes against my neck. “God, Cora, I’ve missed this.”
“Show me,” I say. “Show me how much.”
His hands find the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head. My swimsuit top follows. The moonlight paints my skin silver, and he looks at me like I’m something sacred.
He lowers his mouth to my breast, tongue circling my nipple until I arch up with a gasp. His hand slides down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts. When he finds me, already wet, already aching, he groans against my skin.
“Please,” I whisper. “Muir, please—”
He strips my shorts and swimsuit bottoms away, then his own clothes. The moonlight catches on the planes of his body, the corded muscles of his shoulders, the lean strength of his torso, the hard length of his cock jutting toward me.
I reach for him, wrapping my hand around him, and he shudders. “If you keep doing that, this will be over before it starts.”
“Then don’t make me wait.”