When we turn into the drive, her gaze drifts, taking in the house as I cut the engine. It takes a beat, but I catch the moment it hits her—a slight shift in her expression, like a shadow sliding across her face. Subtle enough that anyone else might miss it. I don’t. Recognition flashes there, followed by pain. A memory she didn’t ask for, forcing its way back to the surface.
Of course she knows this place.
She’s been here before. More than that—she practically lived here.
This house was once a haven before it became a prison. And even though it’s been years since Dean last stepped foot through that door, his presence still clings to the walls like rot beneath the paint.
After she vanished, Rowen, Emerson, and I couldn’t bring ourselves to leave. As much as this place hurt, it was the last thing that still felt tied to her. Walking away felt final, like admitting she was really gone. I couldn’t do it. Not when there was still that stupid, fragile hope whispering that she might come back. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t healthy. But we were drowning, and that thread—thin as it was—kept us anchored to something that felt like survival.
So we stayed.
We changed what we could. Tore out the old carpet. Put fists through drywall. Ripped apart anything Dean ever touched and rebuilt it piece by piece. We told ourselves we were cleansing the place, driving out the ghosts. That we were taking it back.
Maybe we were just trying to convince ourselves we weren’t still haunted.
But deep down, we always knew the truth. This house never stopped being a tomb—because somewhere within these walls, each of us lost something we couldn’t get back.
The life we once had—the version of ourselves that existed before everything shattered—was buried the moment they were gone. And now, walking back into this place with her at my side, feels like prying open a grave we spent years pretending we’d already laid to rest.
She doesn’t say a word. Just stares at the porch. The front door. The windows. Like they’re watching her back.
And maybe they are.
Since the night she vanished, I turned into something cold and hollow—an emotionless pit barely pretending to be human. I channeled the ache into fists and fury, into blood on canvas and silence in the spaces she used to fill. But now? That switch—the one I’d flipped to survive—is snapping back with a vengeance. And everything I’ve buried comes flooding out the second she walks through the door beside me.
I lead her into the house, not rushing, not speaking, just letting the air settle around us. It’s quiet here—dim lighting, muted walls, clean lines—but nothing feels calm. Not with her presence setting fire to the air between us.
She scans the space, her voice soft when she finally asks, “What about Rowen and Emerson? Will they be back soon?”
I don’t miss the change in her voice. The pause. The tension humming just beneath it. She isn’t ready to face them yet—not now. For reasons I don’t fully understand, she’s chosen me first. I don’t know why I’m the one she trusts to step back into her orbit.
Maybe it’s because I was always the most unhinged, the one most willing to burn the world down for her. Maybe it’s because I never stopped searching. Or maybe it’s simpler than that.
Maybe our monsters just recognize each other.
Whatever the reason, I take it. I breathe it in like it’s oxygen, letting the weight of that small mercy settle deep in my chest.
Without a word, I reach down and slip my fingers between hers. She doesn’t pull away. The contact is warm and electric, grounding me in a way nothing has in years.
“They won’t be back tonight,” I murmur, my voice low and certain. “Dean and Bryce will keep them running in circles for hours. Probably investigating your little firework show.”
Her lips twitch, just barely, trying not to smile.
I tilt my head, giving her a look I know she remembers. The kind that used to make her laugh, roll her eyes, and blush all at once. “You’ve been averynaughty little pixie,” I say, letting just a touch of teasing curl through my voice.
This time, the smile breaks free—small, cautious, but real.
I don’t waste the moment. I step in closer, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “You wanted one night, right?” I ask, voice rougher now, lower. “You’ve got it. Just you and me. No questions. No ghosts.” Her expression softens, but I don’t let her get too comfortable. “But when the sun comes up…” I pause, holding her gaze, watching the way it flickers. “You’re telling me everything, Berk. All of it. I’ve waited too damn long for answers.”
She nods once, slow and uncertain, then again—steadier this time. Like she’s gathering the nerve to finally tell me the truth, and I’m steeling myself to hear it.
And maybe… when it’s over, we won’t be standing in the wreckage anymore.
Maybe we’ll finally start clawing our way out.
Together.
Chapter Thirteen