A couple weeks slip by without mercy. Classes, charms, fieldwork, sleep—everything blurs together, the same routines wearing grooves into my bones.
Nothing changes.
Except the nightmares.
They don't come every night anymore. They wait. They watch. They sharpen—like whatever is behind the door has learned patience, learned strategy, learned how to make silence feel like a hand around my throat. When I wake, it isn't with the blunt panic of terror. It's with the precise dread of being studied.
Like I'm not having dreams.
Like I'm being observed through them.
By Friday, I'm so tired the world feels slightly delayed—sound arriving a heartbeat after people's mouths move, colors too bright, edges too sharp. I keep touching my pendant without realizing it, thumb sliding over the crescent until the skin there aches.
Shelby texts anyway, because Shelby does not believe in despair when there are fries available.
Shelby: don't forget we're going to the IceHouse later
Me: yeah yeah, thanks for the reminder
Shelby: we're having fun tonight. Non-negotiable. Pick you up in an hour. Look fucking sexy.
I stare at the message a long time before I answer, because part of me wants to say: I'm not sure fun is allowed around me right now.
But if there's one thing Shelby has always been, it's stubborn about saving me.
So I let her.
By the time we pull into the IceHouse lot, the sun is collapsing behind the trees, bleeding long streaks of gold across cracked pavement. Humidity clings to my skin like damp gauze. The neon sign above the entrance sputters and buzzes—trying to stay alive, trying not to give out.
It's the kind of place that smells like fryer oil and spilled beer even from the parking lot. College kids swarm the doors in tight groups, laughing too loud, dressed like they're auditioning for a better life.
The idea of going out tonight should exhaust me.
But some small, frantic part of me feels…expectant.
Like I'm walking toward something I've already seen in a dream and can't remember waking from.
"I'm starving," I announce, because if I don't talk about food, I'll talk about how my skin feels wrong. "I could eat a horse."
Shelby swings into the spot with a dramatic little brake like she's arriving at the Met Gala. "I could eat two horses," she says, then points at the building. "Let's go before my body starts cannibalizing itself."
She's still talking—about glitter eyeliner and whether we should do a "pre-game playlist" for the Ball—when a car glides into a spot two rows down.
So polished the sunset reflects off it like a blade.
Evan's car.
My head snaps toward her. "I thought you said they'd already be inside."
Shelby's whole face does something subtle and guilty—like she's trying to look innocent and failing in real time. She shrugs too casually, eyes suddenly very interested in the steering wheel.
"I said no such thing. I said I invited them," she mutters. "I also didn't say they'd be here first. I was actually very vague on purpose. You're welcome. I love you."
I just stare at her.
"Don't be mad," she adds quickly. "I just thought it might be fun if we all hung out. Like… you know." Her smile wobbles. "Fate."
My stomach tightens at the word, sharp as a pulled thread.
I open my mouth—ready to deliver the Speech of the Century—when The passenger door of Evan's car opens.
At first, nothing feels wrong.
Then my body reacts—sharp, immediate, traitorous.
My stomach drops. My breath stutters. A thin ringing cuts through my ears like pressure change before a storm. I grip the edge of Shelby's car door without realizing it, fingers whitening, skin buzzing like it's been plugged into a live wire.
Someone steps out.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Controlled.
But it isn't his height or the way the sunset slices along his jaw that hits first.
It's the shift.
The air tightens. Not colder—heavier. Like gravity just adjusted its rules and forgot to warn the rest of us. The noise of the parking lot dulls, conversations blurring into background static. Even the cicadas seem to hesitate mid-song.
And then his eyes lift.
Ice-blue.
Not bright. Not friendly.
Ancient.
The kind of blue that doesn't belong in daylight or crowds or places with menus and neon signs. The kind of blue that remembers snow and steel and blood on stone.
They land on me.
And do not move.
My pulse slams so hard I taste copper.
It's him.
The man from the dream—the wreckage, the smoke, the way the world bent around his presence like it knew to get out of his way. The one who knelt beside me like grief had taught him the shape of my body. The one who said my name like it had survived centuries.
My knees threaten to give.
I don't fall—but only because Shelby grabs my arm, nails biting through denim like anchors.
"Oh my holy hell," she breathes.
I barely hear her.
Because something inside me—something old and uncooperative—has already stepped forward.
Recognition hits low and deep, not in my thoughts but in my bones. Like a tuning fork struck inside my chest, vibrating against memories I don't have permission to access.
My sternum aches.
Not pain.
Pressure.
Like something is trying to align.
The ground feels subtly wrong beneath my feet, like the parking lot has tilted half a degree toward him. Like if I took one step, I'd be falling forward and wouldn't stop.
Beside me, Shelby squeezes harder. "Is it too late," she whispers, reverent and delighted, "for me to dump Evan and take the cousin?"
Her voice snaps me just enough to stay upright.
I force a breath. Air scrapes my lungs on the way in. My skin prickles, goosebumps racing up my arms even though the heat hasn't changed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I flinch like I've been struck.
Mom: Do you feel okay?
Of course she knows. She always does—like the women in my family share some silent frequency I never asked to tune into.
My fingers shake as I text back.
Me: I'm fine. Something surprised me. I'm okay. Love you.
I don't wait for a reply.
I look back up.
He's still watching me.
Not appraising.
Not flirting.
Watching the way someone watches a horizon they've been marching toward for too long to turn away now.
Shelby leans closer. "Ang," she murmurs. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"Déjà vu," I lie.
The word feels thin.
Evan jogs over with golden-retriever energy, picks Shelby up and circles her in a big hug and kisses her face and neck all over, oblivious to the fact that my blood just turned into static., oblivious and beaming, clapping Will on the shoulder like he's introducing a prized possession.
"Angela—this is my cousin, William Enyalios!"
The name hits like a tolling bell.
My grip tightens on Shelby's arm. She feels it. Her smile flickers—just once—but she doesn't say anything.
Shelby beams like this is her personal rom-com climax. "Hi! I'm Shelby. You've probably heard everything about me."
The cousin—William—gives her the smallest curve of a smile. Polite. Controlled. Barely there.
"He's mentioned you," he says.
Then those glacial eyes return to me.
Unbroken. Direct.
Dangerously familiar.
"Just Will," he says.
His voice is low. Warm. Controlled.
It slides under my skin like it already knows the shape of me.
He steps closer and extends his hand.
Every instinct screams don't.
But another instinct—older, deeper—moves my fingers forward like I'm answering a call.
I take his hand.
When our hands meet, the world clicks.
Not electricity.
Not heat.
A lock turning—quiet, internal—like my bones recognized his bones.
My breath catches hard enough to hurt.
His eyes widen—just a fraction. Enough to confirm I didn't imagine it.
"Hello, Angela," he says softly, like my name is a secret we both survived—too intimate, too certain. "The pleasure is entirely mine."
I yank my hand back too fast, trying to act normal, trying to pretend my pulse isn't a wildfire.
"Nice to meet you," I manage.
Shelby claps once—hard, bright, like she can break the tension with sound. "Okay! I'm starving. If I don't get fries in the next five minutes, someone's going to have to princess-carry me out of here."
Evan laughs, already moving toward the entrance. Shelby drags me with her.
Will falls into step beside me without a word.
The closer we get to the doors, the louder the bass becomes—thudding through brick and glass like a second heartbeat. Heat rolls out when someone exits. The smell hits: fried dough, spilled beer, sweat, cheap perfume—college nightlife distilled into one inhale.
Shelby and Evan walk ahead, laughing, glowing, already perfect.
Will walks beside me.
Silent.
Too silent.
I glance up.
I notice it the second we sit—vinyl seats too close, table trapping my knees, Will's presence compressing the air like we're sharing oxygen whether I consent or not.
Shelby and Evan slide in across from us, laughing, already settled into each other's gravity. Their voices bounce easily off the walls. Normal. Loud. Alive.
Will sits beside me.
Doesn't touch me.
Doesn't need to.
The booth tilts anyway.
Not physically—but my awareness does. Every nerve in my body angles toward him like he's a heat source I shouldn't stand this close to.
Shelby kicks my shin under the table.
I ignore her.
Evan launches into a story about intramural drama, hands flying. Shelby reacts appropriately—gasps, laughter, exaggerated outrage.
Will says nothing.
He watches.
Not me—at first.
He maps the room.
Exits. Sightlines. Reflections in glass. The bartender's hands. The man near the door who laughs too loud. His attention moves with military efficiency, cataloging threats no one else has clocked.
My skin tightens.
People who do that don't learn it in safe places.
Then his gaze slides to me.
The shift is subtle but devastating—like the room dims everywhere else. His focus doesn't feel invasive.
It feels…inevitable.
"What are you studying?" he asks.
The question is harmless.
My reaction is not.
I swallow, suddenly aware of how close his arm is to mine, of the faint scent of smoke and rain clinging to his jacket like he stepped through weather that didn't happen tonight.
"Nursing," I say. "And…fashion design. As a hobby."
The words land wrong.
Not incorrect—misplaced. Like I've answered a question he already knew the answer to, but hearing it confirms something he hoped wasn't true.
Something moves behind his eyes.
Not surprise.
Something heavier.
"Of course," he murmurs.
The way he says it isn't dismissive.
It's resigned.
Like a chess piece finally landing where he feared it would.
A chill crawls down my spine.
"Do you go to Mercy?" I ask quickly, because if I don't speak, I'm going to start shaking.
"Not anymore."
Not I don't.
Not I didn't.
Not anymore.
The phrase carries an ending inside it.
Shelby senses the weight immediately and barrels in like a rescue vehicle. "Okay, so—Angela is making her own dress for the Ball. Like, from scratch. Full couture insanity."
Will's gaze drops—not to my face.
To my hands.
Like he's watching memory, not flesh.
"You always did," he says quietly.
My heart stumbles.
"Did…what?" I ask, though I already know.
He blinks, just once—like he realizes he's said too much.
"Make things," he says carefully. "That protect you."
The words scrape something raw.
"You must've seen pictures," I say too fast. "Shelby posts everything."
He doesn't answer.
Doesn't deny it.
Doesn't look away.
And suddenly I understand the worst part—
He isn't trying to impress me.
He's trying not to remember me.
My stomach drops.
Noise floods back in as a server arrives with menus. Shelby and Evan launch into a loud debate about mozzarella sticks versus nachos. I stare at the laminated plastic like it contains instructions on how not to fall apart.
I stand so fast the booth shudders.
"Bathroom," I say, already moving.
Shelby barely has time to blink before I'm gone. I don't look at Will. If I do, I won't make it out of the booth. I won't make it out of the building. Something in my chest is already pulling—tight and insistent—like a tide turning without permission.
I push through the wrong door on purpose.
Cold night air slams into me like a reprimand.
The patio is dim, half-lit by flickering string lights and the glow bleeding out from inside. The sounds of the bar mute behind the glass—music thudding, laughter distorting into something distant and unreal.
I brace my hands on the railing and bend forward, breathing hard.
Get it together.
This is just a guy.
A coincidence.
A badly timed crush.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Cassie: you're with him
Every muscle in my body locks.
Me: Who
I already know the answer.
Cassie: the one from your dreams
Cassie: ang, get distance, leave right now
The air presses in. My scalp prickles. I glance over my shoulder, suddenly convinced I'm not alone.
The door opens behind me.
Too late.
I don't jump—but my body reacts anyway, spine snapping straight, breath stalling halfway in.
Not Cassie.
Will steps out onto the patio like he belongs there.
Like the night rearranged itself to make room.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he says quietly.
His voice doesn't carry. It doesn't need to. It slides straight under my skin, bypassing logic, bypassing fear, hitting something old and fragile I didn't know was exposed.
"I didn't think you were," I say.
It's the truth. That's the terrifying part.
He stops a careful distance away. Not crowding me. Not retreating. Like he's learned—through experience, not instinct—exactly how close is too close.
The string lights flicker.
Wind lifts the edge of his jacket, curls my hair against my cheek. The smell of rain rides the air—sharp, metallic, familiar.
"I know you," he says.
Not I think.
Not you seem familiar.
I grip the railing harder. "From where?"
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps there, sharp and contained, like he's biting back something that would cost too much if spoken.
"I don't think," he says carefully, "that you're ready for that answer."
The words hit harder than any confession.
My heart stutters—not fear. Not excitement.
Recognition.
"Then why are you here?" I demand.
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he's steadying a weapon rather than a conversation.
"Because I wasn't allowed to find you," he says. "And I did anyway, from pure luck."
The patio lights flicker again—harder this time.
A car alarm down the block shrieks, then cuts off abruptly. Wind slams the umbrellas, rattling metal. For a heartbeat, the night feels thin. Watched.
Will's head snaps up, eyes scanning the dark beyond the parking lot.
For one second, I see him stripped bare of civility.
The soldier.
The guardian.
The man who stands between something precious and something monstrous.
Then he blinks—and he's just Will again. Controlled. Quiet. Dangerous in a way that knows restraint.
"I shouldn't have come," he says. "We shouldn't be doing this."
"Then stop," I say.
He doesn't move.
"The more we talk," he continues, voice roughening just slightly, "the more dangerous this becomes. For both of us."
"Dangerous how?"
His gaze drops—not to my face.
To my throat.
To the space just above my heart.
"You don't remember…," he says softly. "Well I remember enough to know what it costs when we do."
Something inside my chest buckles.
I take a step back. The railing presses into my spine. "You don't get to say things like that and walk away."
"I know." His mouth twists—not a smile. Something closer to regret. "That's the problem."
The door behind him bangs open.
"WILL! FOOD'S HERE!"
The spell shatters.
Noise crashes back in. Laughter. Music. The world slamming itself back into place like it was never holding its breath.
Will inhales once—deep, steady—and whatever he was holding inside locks back down.
"We should rejoin them," he says.
He steps aside, giving me space to pass.
I don't move.
"Angela," he adds, softer. "Please."
That does it.
I brush past him, skin buzzing where our sleeves almost touch. My pulse is wild, my thoughts scrambled, my sense of gravity permanently compromised.
As I reach for the door, he speaks again—quiet enough that it feels meant only for me.
"You were never meant to live this way."
I freeze.
Then I push back inside before I can ask what that means.