Theea
resilient little thing, just like mama raised you
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t want to tell him, but because it’s hers. Mine, too, but only because she let it be. The idea of sharing even a sliver of that makes something flutter nervously in my chest—but when I glance at him, all I see is warmth. That mischievous, boyish grin, like he’s asking me to sneak out and cause trouble with him.
So I nod, just once.
“There’s a palm tree,” I say. “Split down the middle from lightning, ages ago. Right at the edge of the beach.” I glance toward the coastline, though it’s out of sight from here. “There’s a hollow near the base where the bark curls back. That’s where I leave the notes most often. I can show you later.”
My voice softens. “It was always the signal. That we were close to the beach shack. I haven’t found it yet.”
Then he offers to send a phoenix feather too, and something in me just… melts.
The way his expression shifts at the mention of Remi—how easily love settles over his face like it lives there—I think I finally understand why my mother never stopped calling them her family.
“She’s going to lose her mind,” I say with a sudden grin, eyes shining. “Even if she doesn’t show up—just seeing that? Getting feathers from you and Remi? That’s going to mean more to her than she’ll ever say.”
The gratitude is thick in my throat, but I don’t try to say it. I just hope it shows in my smile.
Then, gratefully, I follow him deeper into the half-built arena, toward the shaded patch of floor where light spills in uneven shafts through the hole above. It’s warm and quiet, the kind of place that feels like it’s waiting for something to begin.
When he takes up a stance and offers his hand as a target, my nerves kick up all over again.
“Okay,” I murmur, giving a small, uncertain nod as I shake out my hands. “Here we go.”
I square up. Shoulders aligned, feet balanced—not bad. Years of practice tighten my form, even if my fingers twitch a little. Then I throw the first punch.
Pop.
Knuckles strike the center of his palm. Not too soft. I throw another. Then a third. My strikes land with clean rhythm—focused, practiced. I’ve been trained well.
But there are flaws.
My right elbow flares just slightly on the pullback. My footwork drifts when I reset. Small things. Enough to get me hurt in the wrong kind of fight. But I’m breathing steady, eyes locked on his like I’m trying not to smile.
“Be honest,” I say after the next hit. “How much did that make you want to correct me immediately? Hand-to-hand is probably my weakest point.” I know dad would have been picking it apart.
Not because I don’t want to tell him, but because it’s hers. Mine, too, but only because she let it be. The idea of sharing even a sliver of that makes something flutter nervously in my chest—but when I glance at him, all I see is warmth. That mischievous, boyish grin, like he’s asking me to sneak out and cause trouble with him.
So I nod, just once.
“There’s a palm tree,” I say. “Split down the middle from lightning, ages ago. Right at the edge of the beach.” I glance toward the coastline, though it’s out of sight from here. “There’s a hollow near the base where the bark curls back. That’s where I leave the notes most often. I can show you later.”
My voice softens. “It was always the signal. That we were close to the beach shack. I haven’t found it yet.”
Then he offers to send a phoenix feather too, and something in me just… melts.
The way his expression shifts at the mention of Remi—how easily love settles over his face like it lives there—I think I finally understand why my mother never stopped calling them her family.
“She’s going to lose her mind,” I say with a sudden grin, eyes shining. “Even if she doesn’t show up—just seeing that? Getting feathers from you and Remi? That’s going to mean more to her than she’ll ever say.”
The gratitude is thick in my throat, but I don’t try to say it. I just hope it shows in my smile.
Then, gratefully, I follow him deeper into the half-built arena, toward the shaded patch of floor where light spills in uneven shafts through the hole above. It’s warm and quiet, the kind of place that feels like it’s waiting for something to begin.
When he takes up a stance and offers his hand as a target, my nerves kick up all over again.
“Okay,” I murmur, giving a small, uncertain nod as I shake out my hands. “Here we go.”
I square up. Shoulders aligned, feet balanced—not bad. Years of practice tighten my form, even if my fingers twitch a little. Then I throw the first punch.
Pop.
Knuckles strike the center of his palm. Not too soft. I throw another. Then a third. My strikes land with clean rhythm—focused, practiced. I’ve been trained well.
But there are flaws.
My right elbow flares just slightly on the pullback. My footwork drifts when I reset. Small things. Enough to get me hurt in the wrong kind of fight. But I’m breathing steady, eyes locked on his like I’m trying not to smile.
“Be honest,” I say after the next hit. “How much did that make you want to correct me immediately? Hand-to-hand is probably my weakest point.” I know dad would have been picking it apart.
so you got that wildfire in your soul
don't you ever let it go
make it burn so bright that they all know
don't you ever let it go
make it burn so bright that they all know
