49. Aurora
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Aurora
Coyote Glen doesn’t cancel joy. Not for bad weather, not for gossip, and apparently not even for fear, which feels… important.
Because two weeks ago, I woke up with zip ties cutting into my skin and the world reduced to concrete and darkness and the sound of my own breathing.
And today, the town square shines for Founder’s Day.
Lanterns hang between buildings like constellations someone decided we deserved to borrow for a while, string lights wrapped around trees and railings in loose, glowing spirals that make everything feel warmer than it should be for this time of year.
The air is drowning in sugar and smoke and fried food and a floral scent that drifts in and out depending on which way the breeze turns, and everywhere I look, there are people.
Laughing, talking, arguing over pie judging like it’s a matter of national importance.
It’s so aggressively, stubbornly alive that I just stand there at the edge of it, letting it wash over me.
Letting myself catch up.
“Okay,” I murmur under my breath, more to calm the rhythm in my chest than anything else. “You can do this.”
And I can.
I know I can.
It just… takes a second sometimes.
There are still moments where my body forgets where I am, where a loud noise or a sudden movement pulls tight under my ribs before my brain can step in and say, ‘no, you’re safe, you’re here, you’re okay’.
There are still mornings when I wake up already reaching for proof, fingers brushing my wrists like I need to confirm that nothing is holding me there anymore.
But there’s also this. Warm light, laughter, a town that didn’t step back when things got messy, but stepped closer, a town that, somehow, closed ranks around me like I was already theirs.
“Aurora, hi!”
I smile before I even turn.
Dottie Langford materializes at my side like she’s been summoned by the collective emotional energy of the whole square.
“Well,” she says, giving me a once-over that feels equal parts assessment and approval, “you clean up nicely for someone who got dramatically kidnapped.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound slipping out easier than it would have even a few days ago. “Hi to you too, Dottie.”
She hums, satisfied, like I’ve passed some kind of test. “You look better.”
“I feel…” I pause, letting myself check in properly instead of answering automatically. “Better.”
She nods like that’s exactly the answer she was expecting. “Good. Because if you’d let that man scare you off, I would’ve had to haunt him personally, and I don’t have the patience for that kind of long-term commitment.”
“Noted,” I say solemnly.
Her hand comes up, squeezing my arm briefly. “Your grandmother would’ve loved this.”
My chest tightens, but it doesn’t hurt the way it used to.
I look out over the square again, the lights, the people, the way everything feels like it’s glowing from the inside out, and I can almost hear Evie’s voice layered over it, warm and amused and a little bit smug.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I think she would’ve.”
Dottie pats my arm once more and then disappears back into the crowd like she’s got three more conversations to start and at least one secret to collect before the day is over.
I take a breath.
And step in.
The first thing that happens is someone hands me a slice of pie.
I don’t question it.
I accept it like this is a perfectly normal part of reentering society after being kidnapped, because honestly, in Coyote Glen, it kind of is.
“Apple,” Terry Claymore announces proudly, chest puffed out just slightly.
Joanne leans over his shoulder immediately. “He didn’t make it alone.”
“I supervised,” Terry adds, like that somehow proves his point.
“Which isn’t the same thing,” Joanne snaps.
I grin, warmth spreading through me in a way that feels easy now instead of overwhelming. “It’s beautiful.”
“Of course it is,” Joanne says. “Eat it.”
So I do, and it’s incredible. They look so pleased when I tell them that it makes my chest soften even further.
This is how this place works.
You show up.
You stay.
You get handed pie and opinions and, apparently, a place at the table whether you planned for it or not.
It should feel like too much.
But it doesn’t.
Not anymore.
By the time I reach The Hollow, the music has already spilled out into the street, threading through the night like something alive.
Inside, it’s packed, bodies moving, voices raised, laughter bouncing off the walls, and I just stand in the doorway and let it hit me. The cakes have pretty much gone already, but it seems like people didn’t just come here for the bake sale.
The bass thrums, a beat I can feel in my ribs as much as I can hear. The lights are dim and warm, catching on glass and skin and movement, turning everything softer around the edges.
Wild Reverie is on stage, Roman commanding the room with an ease that makes it look effortless, Creed in control behind him, Ezra quieter but no less present, the music building and breaking in waves that feel like they’re pulling the whole place along with them.
It feels like a promise.
Like something opening.
And without really thinking about it, I step forward into it.
“Hey, there.” Finn’s voice slides in beside me like it belongs there.
I turn, already smiling, because he has that effect on me, whether I want him to or not.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I didn’t have a time to be here.”
“Exactly,” he replies. “Late.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoes, softer now.
His gaze flicks over me quickly, not obvious, but thorough enough that I feel it. The quiet check-in, the unspoken are you okay?
“I’m good,” I say, just as quietly.
“I know,” he answers, like he actually does.
And maybe he does.
He takes my hand then, easy, warm, and certain, and pulls me further into the room like this is exactly where I’m meant to be.
Zane is there before I even realize I’m looking for him.
Or maybe he’s just always been close enough that I didn’t need to.
I feel him before I see him, that presence that has become something my body recognizes instinctively now.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
His eyes move over my face, not searching for cracks, just… checking. Reading. Making sure I’m really here.
“How are you?” he asks.
I breathe in, let myself feel it fully before I answer.
“I think…” I say slowly, “I think I’m actually good.”
His shoulders ease, just slightly.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
His hand brushes mine, fingers sliding lightly over my knuckles in a touch that’s soft enough to miss if I wasn’t paying attention.
I am.
I squeeze back, because yes, I’m here, I’m choosing this.
Eventually, in the crowd, I find Ryder too. Our eyes meet, and a quiet settles between us. I move toward him, weaving through the crowd, aware of him the whole time in that strange, soothing way I’ve come to know.
When I reach him, his hand comes up, brushing along my arm.
“You’ve been out,” he says.
“No one told me I was grounded,” I reply. “Not during the festival where the whole town is out, looking out for me.”
His mouth almost curves. “Reckless.”
“Brave.”
“Stubborn.”
“Definitely.”
That earns me the smallest shift in his expression, which feels like approval.
His gaze lingers, deeper now, like he’s looking for anything that says I’m not ready for this.
I don’t hide from him.
“I’m okay,” I say softly.
He studies me.
Then nods. “Stay close.”
“I was planning on it.”
I don’t feel the urge to leave.
I don’t feel the pull of the road or the need to keep moving just to outrun something I can’t name.
I feel still, in the best possible way.
Like I’ve landed somewhere.
Like something in me finally stopped searching.