I chuckled too, but my gaze stayed fixed on her—on the way her fingers absently traced the grain of the wooden table, the faint blush coloring her cheeks when she smiled. Even in the dim hum of the circus cart, she somehow glowed brighter than anyone else.

She was so happy talking about Night that it made something sharp twist inside me. I found myself wishing it was me she spoke about that way—like I was the one who made her smile sound so alive. The jealousy came hard and fast, even though Night wasn’t here anymore. I shoved the feeling deep down . I didn’t have the right to feel it, not when I’d barely earned her trust.

“Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I’m glad you two got to meet again.”

Her smile dimmed, softening into something that carried both warmth and sorrow. “Yeah… I thought he’d been discarded.”

The word hit heavy in the air between us. Phyx’s hand landed gently on her shoulder, his voice quiet but thick with emotion. “We’re so sorry you had to go through that.”

She gave a small shrug, as if it didn’t matter. “I’m used to it.” Then, before the silence could deepen, she added, “So, why exactly did you bring me here?”

“We thought you could sit with us,” I replied, “drink a little, talk a little.”

“When you say drink,” she said slowly, suspicion in her tone, “do you mean alcohol?”

Phyx and I shared a look—one that said we both found her innocence far too endearing. “Uh, yeah,” I said, unable to hide the smile in my voice. “You’ve never had alcohol before, Nix? How old are you, anyway?”

She tilted her head slightly, her brows drawing together as she seemed to think it over. “Wait,” Phyx said, disbelief coloring his voice, “do you not know how old you are?”

“I know I came here when I was ten,” she said with a small shrug. “But it’s kind of hard to keep track of the years when you’re blind.”

The way she said it—so offhand, like it was nothing—made anger rise in my chest. The casual tone she used about her pain always set something off in me. It wasn’t right. None of what had happened to her was right. But she’d learned to talk about it like it was just another fact of her life.

I jerked my chin toward Phyx. “Just get the drinks. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He moved off, and I shifted closer to her, the scent of her—soft, clean, with a hint of sawdust and sugar from the fairgrounds—slipping through my restraint. I didn’t know why I cared so much about keeping her close, only that it felt wrong when she wasn’t within reach.

When Phyx returned, the faint clink of glass announced him before his warmth joined ours again. “So,” I asked, trying to sound lighter, “are you ready to tell us why this performance is so important to you?”

“Not really,” she admitted, with a stubborn edge in her voice.

I chuckled softly, leaning back. “Alright, then what do you want to talk about? And don’t say the performance.”

She turned her head toward me, and though she couldn’t see me, the glare in her voice was unmistakable. “Fine. Let’s talk about the two of you.”

“Us?” Phyx echoed, settling beside her again.

He set the drinks down with a soft clatter—three glasses. I guided her hand until her fingertips brushed the rim of hers, and she gave a small, appreciative hum as she found it.

“Yeah,” she said, “like how did you two end up here?”

Phyx and I exchanged a look. We both knew she could hear the silence that stretched between us. The story wasn’t a good one—nothing about how we’d joined the circus was. But maybe telling her would keep her mind from spiraling into whatever had her so tense lately.

“Alright,” I said finally, my voice low. “We’ll tell you our story—if you promise to tell us why this performance matters so much.”

She hesitated, lips pressing together, the sound of her breath trembling just slightly before she exhaled. “Alright,” she said softly, “but only after the performance.”

A slow smile spread across my face. “Deal.”

Phyx’s hand brushed against hers as he slid her drink closer. “Careful—it’s sweet, but it’s strong.”

She sniffed the rim first, then laughed. “Smells like fire.”

“Good,” I murmured. “Then it’s perfect for you.”

Her quiet giggle pulled something loose in my chest, and for the first time that night, the tension between us shifted—not gone, just changed. Warmer. Charged. Like the start of something dangerous, neither of us could name.

I leaned back with a sigh, the burn of the alcohol still warm in my throat. “Well, I guess I should start at the beginning,” I said, glancing toward the space between us even though I knew she couldn’t see me.

Phyx shifted beside her, his quiet breathing steady, like he’d already accepted that we were telling this story tonight.

“Phyx and I never knew our parents,” I began. “When we were just babies, someone left us on the steps of an orphanage. They took us in, but it didn’t take long for them to realize we were… different.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Anytime we cried, things caught fire. Curtains, sheets, toys—anything. At first, they thought it was a coincidence. But when the fires kept spreading, and it always happened when we were upset, they got scared.”

Nix listened in silence, the faint scent of her drink—something sweet, maybe spiced rum—mixing with the heavy circus air.

“By the time we were six,” I continued, “we’d already been passed through more than ten different orphanages. No one wanted to keep the ‘fire twins.’ By then, we’d learned a little control, but not enough to make people trust us.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the rim of her cup, tracing it as though mapping the story in sound and shape.

“They decided to separate us,” I said quietly. “They thought that would stop the fires.”

Phyx let out a soft snort. “But we weren’t going to let that happen.”

I smiled faintly. “We ran. Lived on the streets for years—stole food, slept wherever we could. Winter was the hardest. Sometimes, we’d light small fires under bridges to stay warm. We nearly got caught more times than I can count.”

I paused, watching her take another careful sip of her drink. She’d been cautious with the first few sips, but now there was a tiny flush on her cheeks, and her lips curved into the faintest smile.

Phyx picked up the story then, his voice lower, steadier. “Everything was going okay until Blaze”—he nodded toward me—“decided to steal from someone important.”

I grinned at the memory, though it was a grim one.

“That man tracked us down,” Phyx went on. “But instead of turning us in, he took us in. Gave us food, clothes, and even a home. Treated us like his own sons.”

Nix leaned in slightly, her breath catching.

“For two years,” Phyx said softly, “we had something close to a proper family.” His hand tightened around his glass. “Then, one day, we came home from school and found a man standing over his body. The man who saved us… dead.”

Nix gasped, a small, trembling sound that somehow cut through the steady hum of conversation around us. “Oh my god,” she whispered, voice barely audible but heavy with sorrow. “That’s awful.”

Phyx exhaled slowly, a sound that carried the weight of years. “That’s not the worst part,” he whispered. “The man who killed him was his own estranged son—the one he’d cut off years before. He found out his father had rewritten the will, leaving everything to us when he died. So he hid the new will, sold us to this place, and took everything that was meant for us.”

As his voice broke off, the air seemed to still. Even the faint sound of the tightrope creaking above us felt distant, muffled. Nix shifted closer, her head finding my shoulder. I could feel the subtle rise and fall of her breath through the thin fabric between us, her scent soft and faintly floral—something I was beginning to associate with warmth and safety.

She wasn’t asleep; I could tell by the faint twitch of her fingers where they brushed against my sleeve. Still, her body was heavy with drowsiness, the drink softening her edges.

I nudged her lightly. “You still with me, Nix?”

Her lips parted, voice slow and slurred but sincere. “Mm-hm. Oh, yeah… I’m sorry that happened to you. I really am. I just—” She exhaled, the sound like a sigh wrapped in silk. “That drink made me a little too cozy. I’ll react better in the morning, I promise.”

Her words faded into a sleepy hum, and though her eyes couldn’t see me, I knew she felt me watching her—quiet, steady, unwilling to move. It didn’t matter that we would have to carry her out of her I was actually looking forward to that.