Rowan Holstock

Now, the night was his reward. He sank into the solid comfort of an Adirondack chair, its broad arms cool beneath his fingertips, and let the fire’s heat chase away the crisp bite of evening. The cider steamed in his hand, fragrant with cinnamon and clove. One sip spread warmth through him, sharper than the burn of whiskey but sweeter, lingering at the back of his tongue. The fire cracked and shifted, sparks spiraling into the dark like fireflies. Beyond the circle of flame, the woods had gone hushed, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the low trill of a night insect. The air was alive with contrasts—smoky and sweet, sharp and warm, quiet yet waiting. He felt it in the way his skin prickled where the firelight met shadow, as though the night itself was holding its breath, expectant. Rowan’s gaze lingered on the empty chair beside him, a faint smile playing at his lips, already knowing you’d be the one to fill it. He shifted slightly, eyes catching the glow of the fire as he murmured, low and warm: “Thought I heard your footsteps—was hoping you’d come sit with me.”