Stone by Stone

Chapter 1

The booth was too small for someone like Freddie.

It always had been. The high-backed leather seats at The Crooked Beaker were designed for standard sizes—human, elf, maybe the occasional satyr if they didn't mind a tight squeeze. But Freddie Dunbrake was no standard anything. He folded his wings in with practiced precision, shoulders hunched slightly to keep from looming. His talons tapped a soft, restless rhythm on the condensation-slick glass of his third dark lager.

Saf was late. Again.

Freddie didn't mind. Not really. He liked the quiet hum of the place—the muffled clink of glassware, the hiss of something frying in the back, the soft jazz looping through the speakers. But tonight, the silence felt... different. It had teeth.

He reached into his pocket and checked his phone for the fifth time. Nothing. No texts from Saf. No missed calls from home.

No message from her.

She was supposed to be at that retreat in the glade—the one with the yoga and breathwork and herb-infused water. Freddie had nodded along when she brought it up weeks ago. Told her it sounded "restful" and that he'd hold down the fort. She needed space, and he was good at giving it.

Too good, maybe.

The seat across from him creaked as someone dropped into it.

"Gods, it's like someone bottled every ounce of academic misery into a single conference and made me chug it." Saffron Crawford exhaled dramatically, fluffing the collar of his deep red coat and setting down a half-unzipped messenger bag that looked about three stressors away from exploding. "Sorry I'm late. Professor Glenvale cornered me with some long-winded monologue about interspecies bonding rituals. Again."

Freddie gave a grunt that passed for sympathy, then slid over the spare drink he'd ordered half an hour ago. "Still warm."

Saf sniffed it. "Mm. You always know how to keep a boy hydrated."

Freddie shrugged, but there was a flicker of something in his golden eyes. The kind of flicker that said I needed this. I needed someone who sees me.

"Rough day?" Saf asked, more gently now. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His fuzzy moth antennae dipped low, attentive.

Freddie's jaw worked for a second before he spoke. "House was too quiet."

Saf stilled.

"Is she already back?" he asked carefully.

"No. Tomorrow, supposedly." Freddie swirled the lager. "But I keep checking the door. Like I expect her to walk in and be... I don't know. Different."

Saf's brows lifted.

"Not her," Freddie corrected himself, tone tightening. "Me. I keep thinking maybe I'll be different."

The bar around them hummed with low chatter, but at their table, something delicate and brittle had settled between them.

"Did you think about calling her?" Saf asked.

Freddie shook his head. "No. I mean... what would I say? 'Hey, just checking if you're happier without me'?"

"Freddie."

He glanced up, slow and heavy. His gaze met Saf's—sharp gold against velvet brown.

"I'm not saying you should interrogate her. But when was the last time you told her something real?" Saf's voice was quiet now. Steady. "Not a grocery list. Not fixing the dryer. Something... honest."

Freddie didn't answer.

Saf softened. "You still love her?"

Freddie's jaw tightened again. Then:

"Yes."

There was no hesitation in it. No frills. Just stone certainty.

Saf let out a breath like he'd been holding it.

"Then tell her when she comes home."

Freddie looked away. "What if she doesn't want to hear it?"

"Then at least you said it."

He didn't reply. But he didn't argue either.

Saf nudged his glass. "C'mon. Drink your feelings like a healthy adult."

That earned a half-smile, ghosted over Freddie's lips and gone in a blink.

But Saf caught it. He always did.

Outside, the sky began to bruise into dusk. And inside the too-small booth, the silence stretched—but it no longer had teeth. Not with Saf across from him. Not with Freddie, quietly starting to wonder if silence had been part of the problem all along.