The inside of the tree house is flooded in warm amber from the firefly lights woven intricately across the ceiling. He lifts his chin toward the entrance and there’s not a trace of anger when he says, “So you can see where you’re going.” “Why didn’t you have those lights on the whole time?” I grumble, making my way out the way we came. His warm breath curls around my ears. “Some things are easier to say in the dark.”
