The wind that night smelled like rain and smoke and something softer-something that felt almost like healing.

We'd spent the evening on the porch, talking about everything and nothing, wrapped in the kind of silence that only exists between people who've already seen each other break. Damian had made pasta-terribly, by the way-but I'd eaten it anyway just to watch him try not to laugh at himself.

The lights from the cabin window spilled over the grass, pale and flickering. I leaned back in my ...