Monday came too fast.
Delorah stepped out of the car and into the sharp morning light, her school blazer already too stiff against her shoulders. The breeze had a brittle edge to it, cold enough to bite but not enough to distract. Hawthorne's brick façade rose before her—unchanged, orderly, indifferent. Just like always. But everything inside her had shifted.
Around her, students spilled onto the courtyard in clusters. Laughter rang out, footsteps slapped against pavement, and someone shouted a half-remembered joke from Friday. It was the usual Monday noise—careless, alive, full of weekend stories. But to Delorah, it all sounded like it was coming from behind thick glass. Distant. Disconnected.
Her mother's voice still echoed, clear and polite like a bell rung in a museum:
"An opportunity. For all of us."
Her stomach turned. She shifted her backpack higher on her shoulder and scanned the crowd—just for a second. Looking for Kit. A reflex she couldn't shake, even now. Especially now.
He wasn't there.
The air felt colder all of a sudden, despite the sun. She tugged her sleeves down further, wishing she could do the same with her thoughts. The contract sat under her skin like a secret infection—quiet, burning, getting worse. She hadn't told anyone. Not Cassie.Not even Kit.
It was like carrying a bomb.
And sooner or later, someone would hear the tick.
.
.
.
.
Kit's boots struck the pavement with a deliberate weight, each step louder in his skull than it should've been. The chill of the morning hadn't worn off, and neither had the dread.
Hawthorne's front doors yawned open, and the building swallowed him whole—hallways stretching like a throat, the murmurs of classmates a constant hum just beneath the surface. He didn't fight it. Easier to disappear in the noise than stand out today.
He hadn't slept. Not really. Not after that.
His father's voice still scraped at the back of his skull like rusted metal, sharp and cold. But it was Sebastian's words that wouldn't stop echoing—the smirk behind them, the smugness like he'd already won.
"She's going to be my wife, Adrian. Isn't that something?"
Kit stopped in front of his locker, fists clenched at his sides. The metal felt too smooth beneath his fingertips, too familiar, like it didn't know the world had ended sometime between last night and this morning.
His jaw tightened. Fingers twitched, itching to swing, to hit something, to bleed if that's what it took to quiet the ache under his skin. The fight was over—had never really been his to win—but his body didn't seem to care.
He hadn't seen her yet.
Delorah.
Her name felt dangerous now. Like it carried teeth. Like it could undo him.
And still… his eyes kept scanning the halls without meaning to. Just in case.
He didn't know what he wanted from her anymore. Comfort? Answers? A miracle? A time machine?
He'd texted her because silence was worse. Because if he didn't reach out, he was afraid he'd vanish altogether. But now?
Now all he wanted was distance. Walls. Shields. Anything to stop her from seeing just how breakable he really was.
Not Adrian. Not anymore.
Adrian was a ghost with his mother's eyes and his father's name. Kit was what rose from the ash.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaled slow.
Any second now, Sebastian might turn the corner—smirking, composed, perfect in his pressed collar and inherited cruelty.
A shadow with a pulse.
A mirror in a sharper suit.
And if he did?
Kit didn't know whether he'd run, scream, or finally hit back.
Kit eventually spotted her near her locker—arms crossed, body angled like she was holding the whole world at arm's length. Her eyes flicked down at her phone, but they weren't really reading. Not like they normally did.
Something in him eased just from seeing her, but it came paired with something sharp. His chest tightened. The weight of everything unspoken—it sat between them like a third person.
He wove through the moving crowd until he was close enough to speak without being overheard.
"Del," he said, quiet but rough—his voice sandpapered raw by the sleepless night.
She looked up, startled. Her eyes widened before narrowing slightly, wariness settling in like armor. "Kit," she breathed, glancing around as if the walls had ears. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in class."
He shrugged, shifting closer. "I'm ditching."
Her brows pulled together. "Kit…"
"You should, too."
Her lips parted like she might argue. But then her eyes searched his—really searched—and found the cracks.
"Why would I do that?" she asked. "What if someone sees us?"
He hesitated. Then gave her a crooked smile—that one. The one that made it feel like gravity had picked her. Like every other noise in the school dulled except his voice.
"Because today's not about class," he said. "It's about us. Before everything changes."
Her breath caught.
She bit her lip, teeth tugging just hard enough to reveal her hesitation, but also her want. The truth was already curling behind her eyes—she knew something was breaking, even if she didn't have the full picture yet.
And still, she nodded. Slow. Reluctant. Defiant.
"Okay," she whispered.
Kit didn't wait. He slipped his fingers into hers, and they bolted—quiet and fast—down the back corridor. The hush of the hallway swallowed them, the fluorescent lights humming overhead as the echo of their footsteps faded into something that felt almost like freedom.
The path wasn't marked—just a thin trail where leaves had been worn down by quiet footsteps—but Kit walked it like it was stitched into his bones. Delorah followed close behind, brushing branches aside, heart thudding louder the deeper they went.
The trees opened suddenly, like breath drawn between ribs, revealing a clearing hidden from the world. A crooked swing hung from a low-hanging branch, swaying slowly in the breeze like it remembered someone. A faded blanket lay half-folded near a fallen log, its corners pinned by a smooth river stone and an empty thermos that hadn't moved in days.
It felt like a place suspended in time. A memory no one else had touched.
Kit didn't speak. He just sat on the edge of the blanket, elbows resting on his knees, gaze low and far away.
Delorah sank down beside him, careful not to close the space between them too quickly.
"You used to come here alone?" she asked.
He nodded, once. "Still do. Sometimes." His voice was rough, like it had been scraped raw by something unsaid. "It's quiet here. Doesn't feel like anything's watching. Or judging."
Delorah let her eyes drift across the clearing, the light filtering down in broken patches. "Are you okay?"
He let out a quiet laugh—small and bitter, not quite alive. "No. Not really."
She waited.
He rubbed his palms together, fingers twitching like they were looking for something to hold onto.
"I think I brought you here because I wanted to be someone else. Just for a minute." He paused, the silence between his words heavy. "Or maybe I just wanted you to see me when I'm not pretending."
He didn't look at her. Just stared out toward the trees like they held a version of himself he couldn't quite reach.
"I hate myself," Kit said quietly. "I know I joke around and flirt and act like nothing touches me, but that's just noise. Underneath, it's like… I'm full of teeth and smoke and bad decisions I don't know how to stop making."
Delorah's breath caught, but she stayed still. Listening.
"I thought if I played the part long enough—acted like the version everyone expected—the rest would disappear. But it doesn't. It's still there. Adrian is still there. And I hate him."
His voice trembled, and finally—finally—he turned to look at her.
"I don't want to mess this up," he said, eyes raw and open. "You and me. Whatever this is. But people like me... we don't get to keep things like this. Not for long."
"You're not," Delorah said gently, her voice barely above the wind. "You haven't."
Kit's mouth pulled into a bitter smile. "Not yet."
A stillness settled over them, the kind that doesn't come from peace but from grief holding its breath. The trees above them rustled softly, branches swaying like they were eavesdropping.
Then, quieter than before, Kit said, "I was fourteen when the fire happened."
Delorah's head turned toward him, slow and careful.
"My mom and I were the only ones home. My dad and Sebastian were gone—some business trip, I think. I don't remember the details. Just that it was night, and I was supposed to be asleep."
He stared down at his hands, thumbs pressing into his palms like he could dig out the memory with pressure alone.
"But I smelled smoke."
His voice hollowed out, like the words were coming from somewhere far deeper than his throat.
"I tried to get to her. I swear I did. But the flames were everywhere. The whole hallway lit up like a furnace. It was so fast. The kitchen—where she was—was already swallowed. I remember the color of it. That weird orange-white that doesn't feel real." His voice cracked. "I still see it when I close my eyes. Every night."
Delorah reached for his hand, slowly. She didn't say anything. Just held on.
"They said it was faulty wiring. A tragic accident. But the alarms didn't go off. And afterward… my dad didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't even hug me. He just looked me in the eye and asked what the investigators told me. What I saw. What I remembered."
Kit laughed, sharp and humorless. "That's all he cared about."
Delorah's chest ached. Not just for him, but for the way he said it—like it was normal. Like he'd convinced himself it wasn't worth mourning.
"I think he did it," Kit said. "Not with his own hands. He'd never get them dirty. But he wanted control. And she… she protected me. She told him no. She told me I didn't have to be like them."
His hand trembled in hers. "After she died, everything changed. He changed. I changed."
Delorah squeezed his hand tighter.
"And now he's doing it again. Trying to erase me. Trying to turn me into something I'm not. Using Adrian like a weapon. Like if he says it enough times, I'll crawl back into the box he built."
His breath hitched.
"And the worst part is… I almost believed him. That I deserved it. That Kit was just smoke. Nothing solid. Nothing real."
Delorah didn't look away. "You're more than enough."
He didn't answer—not right away. Just stared at her like she'd handed him something he didn't know how to hold. Something he'd never been trusted with before.
Then—quiet, shaken—he said, "I just don't want you to forget who I really am when everything blows up. When people start talking."
"I won't," Delorah said. Her voice didn't waver.
Kit exhaled, slow and jagged, like the breath had been caught in his chest for years.
"I needed you to know," he murmured, "before it all hits."
He didn't pull his hand away. Neither of them moved. They just stayed like that—pressed close, their fingers laced between them, the forest murmuring around the quiet like it knew how fragile this moment was.
Delorah leaned her head against his shoulder—slow, steady, asking nothing.
He didn't flinch.
After a long beat, Kit said, "Nobody ever tells you how loud grief is."
Delorah tilted her head slightly, listening.
"It's not just crying or screaming. It's the doors that don't open anymore. The footsteps you wait for that never come. It's the silence after someone says her name and then pretends they didn't."
His voice faltered.
Delorah's fingers tightened gently around his. "You shouldn't have had to carry that alone."
His jaw worked like he was trying not to let something slip.
"They acted like she was… a chapter," he said. "One we weren't allowed to reread. But I—" His thumb traced the ridge of her knuckle. "I remember everything. Even the way the house smelled when she was cooking. The way she laughed when I made up dumb stories to make her smile. It's all still there. Every detail. Like I'm afraid if I stop remembering, she'll disappear for good."
Delorah didn't answer. She didn't need to.
She shifted slightly, just enough to press a kiss—barely a breath—against the curve of his shoulder, just above his shirt sleeve.
Kit froze.
And for a moment, the world did too.
Not in a way that asked for more. Not in a way that rushed. Just in that quiet, sacred language of I see you. You're not alone.
He let out a slow, fragile breath, one that trembled on the way out.
Then, almost too quiet to hear: "Thank you."
He didn't say for what. He didn't have to.
They stayed like that for a long time, shoulder to shoulder in a forgotten clearing, tucked between trees and memory—two kids on borrowed time, holding on while they still could.
.
.
.
.
Back at school, second period bled into third with no sign of either Kit Honey or Delorah LaRoche.
Attendance wasn't usually something students—or teachers—cared much about. Not when half the class was always mysteriously out with a "family emergency" or a recurring "migraine." But Ms. Bellamy noticed.
She always noticed.
Her pen hovered above the roll sheet. Glasses low on her nose, she glanced toward the two empty desks.
Delorah's chair still had her blue sweater draped over the back—neatly folded the way she always left it, like she planned to return.
Kit's desk had a faint smear of black marker. Someone had written "ASH" in Sharpie and tried to rub it out. A name that wasn't supposed to exist. A wound that didn't quite fade.
Ms. Bellamy clicked her pen once. Then again. Circled both names.
And said nothing.
. . . . .
Later that afternoon, in the polished, too-quiet front office of Hawthorne Academy, a different kind of tension settled.
Sebastian Honey had stopped by.
He didn't linger. Didn't say more than he had to. Just signed in at the front desk as a guest, presented a sealed envelope marked with the Honey family crest, and left.
He wasn't a student here—hadn't been for years. But when the Honey name walked through those doors, people took notice.
No one knew what was in the envelope. But it was thick. Embossed. Formal.
A contract?
The whispers in the staff lounge started immediately. And by the time the Dean's assistant slid the envelope onto Hargrave's desk, the questions were already spreading.
Delorah LaRoche. Absent.
Kit Honey. Also missing.
Two families. One legacy.
And now, one spark.
It wouldn't take much for the fire to start.
.
.
.
.
Outside, Sebastian slid into the driver's seat of his Audi, the leather interior still warm from the sun. He didn't start the engine right away. Just sat there, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the sealed copy of the contract.
From this angle, Hawthorne looked small. Like a cage Kit kept trying to escape from, only to wind up tangled in the bars.
Sebastian smiled—barely there, a suggestion of teeth.
He opened his phone. Typed out a message with clinical ease.
Sebastian: Kit didn't show up today. Neither did the girl.
No embellishments. No need.
He hit send.
The message vanished into the ether, bound for their father's inbox. And with it, the first tug on the leash around Kit's throat.
He tapped the wheel in time with the slow beat pulsing through his car speakers. Something ambient. Unforgiving.
Then he pulled out of the lot, the engine purring like a threat that hadn't been spoken yet.