the party had thinned into embers.

hours later, the grand halls—once bright with conversation and polite laughter—had settled into a gentler, sleepier glow. the adults had retreated to their carriages or to guest rooms upstairs, voices fading behind heavy oak doors. only a few lingering murmurs drifted from the drawing room where the older men still nursed brandy, too set in their rituals to leave.

but the younger ones—your circle—had slipped away the moment the last formal goodbye was uttered.

you all ended up in the old sitting room at the back of the house, the one with the slanted ceiling and the faded blue wallpaper, half-forgotten by the adults but beloved by you since childhood. someone had dragged thick blankets from the linen closet; someone else located a half-finished tin of biscuits from the kitchen. the fire burned low in the hearth, throwing lazy amber shapes across the floor as you all sprawled—boots kicked off, hair loosened, the strain of formalities finally peeled away.

daniel lay dramatically across the rug like a fainting poet. louisa and kate were curled on the settee, whispering and giggling about some scandalous remark overheard during dinner. thomas picked at the piano in the corner, coaxing out soft, wandering notes that matched the hush of the late hour. the storm outside had slowed to a feather-light drift, snow tapping faintly against the windowpanes.

and then there was him—the harrington boy, the host, sitting close beside you on the floor, knees nearly touching. he’d shed his stiff coat, sleeves rolled, hair a little mussed from running his hands through it too many times. in the dim firelight, he looked nothing like the polished figure who had greeted guests hours earlier. he looked younger. softer. almost uncertain.

he didn’t speak much; he rarely did. but every time you laughed, his eyes flicked toward you—quick, unguarded, as though checking that you were still there, still warm, still within reach.

at some point, louisa yawned theatrically and declared it “the hour of confessions,” prompting kate to roll her eyes and thomas to play a dramatic chord. the room shifted into that late-night looseness where everything seemed funny and a little unreal, where truths floated closer to the surface.

“remember the summer we thought the attic was haunted?” daniel said, voice thick with nostalgia.

“it was the twins’ fault,” you replied. “they made the noises.”

soft laughter rippled. warmth pulsed. the fire crackled like it, too, was listening.

he turned his head toward you then, his voice low so only you could hear. “you haven’t changed,” he murmured.

you blinked. “is that good or bad?”

his eyes softened—quiet, golden in the firelight. “good,” he said, barely above a whisper. “better than good.”

for a moment, the others blurred into background. the tired hush of the house folded around you like a secret. the hour deepened, the party long gone, the world narrowed to the soft glow of the dying fire and the impossible closeness of his knee against yours.

outside, snow kept falling. inside, something else quietly began.