"So," Shelby says, elbowing me hard enough to rattle my bones, "are we alive or are we haunting the booth?"
"I'm alive," I lie, reaching for a wing like the answer can be proven with barbecue sauce.
Evan grins. "She's always like this. Quiet. Judgy. Probably plotting how to dissect us for extra credit."
"I'm a nursing major," I mutter. "Dissection is educational."
Shelby gasps. "She threatened violence. That's progress."
They laugh—easy, loud, normal. I let the sound wash over me and pretend it's working.
The IceHouse is a sensory assault: bass pounding through the seats, neon flickering in my peripheral, the air thick with fryer grease and cheap perfume. My body should be settling back into the room.
It isn't.
Because every time I move, I feel Will track it—the smallest shift of my shoulders, the way I pick up my glass, the moment my knee bounces under the table like a trapped animal.
I keep my focus on Shelby's smile. On Evan's stupid jokes. On the plate of wings like it's a lifeline.
And still, I can feel Will like weather.
He doesn't stare outright. That would be obvious.
Instead, he watches in quick passes—glances that land and lift like he's checking whether the person in front of him reminds him of someone else. Like he's counting constellations under my skin, making sure all the stars are still where they're supposed to be.
I pretend I don't notice. I pretend my pulse isn't acting like it's trying to escape my throat.
The IceHouse is loud in that specific chaotic way—music thumping from old speakers, arcade machines shrieking in the corner, someone yelling "CHUG! CHUG!" near the bar. Neon signs buzz. TVs overhead flicker with a game no one's really watching. The air smells like fried dough, cheap cologne, spilled beer, and other people's sweat.
It should feel normal.
It doesn't.
Because the whole time, there's this awareness under my skin.
Him.
Ninety percent of my attention is on not making eye contact. The other ten are dedicated to not thinking about him. Like something clicking into place that had been waiting a very long time. Like pressing down on soil and waking a seed buried there.
"Okay," Shelby announces, clapping once and drawing all eyes to her like she's hosting an awards show. "Now that everyone has carbs and grease, we can talk about important things."
Evan groans. "If this is another spreadsheet about Ball logistics—"
"First of all," she says, pointing a fry at him, "my spreadsheet system is the only reason you own a suit that fits. Second of all…" She swivels toward Will, eyes gleaming. "Did you know Ang is an artist?"
I almost drop my wing. "Shelby."
"What?" She twirls the fry like a baton. "Tell me I'm wrong. Go on."
I stare at my plate. "I doodle."
Shelby barks a laugh. "Van Gogh doodled. You draw full-blown worlds. And people. And weird glowy doors that look like they're going to judge my soul."
Will's attention sharpens. It's subtle—so subtle anyone else would miss it—but I feel it like a pressure change.
"Doors?" he repeats.
My pulse stumbles. "It's nothing. Just…concept stuff."
Evan leans in, grabbing another wing. "No, seriously, she's insane. She designed her own formal dress freshman year and half the girls still hate her for it. Ang walked in looking like a woodland goddess and everybody else looked like they got lost in Prom Two-Thousand-Lame."
Shelby sighs, theatrical and fond. "It was the dress a goddess would wear if they ever decided to throw hands at a gala."
"Exaggeration," I mumble, cheeks heating.
Will's arm stretches along the back of the booth—casual, like any guy. But his sleeve whispers against my shoulder, and my skin lights up where fabric passes close.
Lock turning.
Something buried shifting.
"I'd like to see it," he says quietly. "Your art."
I force a shrug, licking sauce off my thumb so I don't have to look at him. "I deleted most of my photos before we came. So…no evidence."
He doesn't look convinced. "Guess I'll have to see it in person."
"Bold of you to assume you're invited to her lair," Shelby says, trying very hard not to grin. "It's sacred ground. You need three references and a blood oath."
I jab her in the calf with my heel under the table.
She yelps. "Ow. Rude."
"I'm mysterious," I say. "Let me have this."
Evan snorts. "You? Mysterious? You color-code your notes. You apologize to furniture when you bump into it."
Will huffs a soft laugh, and for a second I see something human and unguarded—like sunlight through storm clouds.
"Color-coding and apologies aren't mutually exclusive with mystery," he says. "Some people are interesting in more than one dimension."
The way he says it—matter-of-fact, not flirty—makes my chest twinge. Like he's talking to someone I used to be, not the girl sitting here now. Like he remembers the other dimensions better than I do.
Shelby hears it too. Her gaze bounces between us, and her smile goes very, very slow.
Uh-oh.
"So!" she chirps, clapping again. "Evan and I are going dancing. Before this turns into the poetry slam of repressed feelings."
Evan groans. "We just ate."
"You ate," she corrects. "I sampled. Which means I can still look hot when I move. Let's go."
He doesn't argue long. He never really does with her.
Within seconds they're sliding out of the booth, a blur of perfume and cologne. Shelby pauses just long enough to rest her hand on my shoulder. Her eyes meet mine, bright and knowing.
I am leaving you on purpose. Don't waste it.
She wiggles her fingers behind Evan's back where only I can see, mouthing, Text me if you need rescuing.
Then they vanish into the crowd, swallowed by music and bodies and colored light.
I watch them longer than necessary, letting their laughter fade into white noise. Shelby deserves this glow. Evan's hand is already on her waist, spinning her under multicolored bulbs like they're center stage and everyone else is set dressing.
I hope he doesn't break her.
I hope she doesn't break herself for him.
I used to think love was that kind of gravity—throw yourself in and hope the fall is kind.
Now I'm not so sure.
Now I have Will.
He doesn't pounce on the silence. He lets it stretch. He studies his glass like the condensation pattern is interesting. His arm stays along the back of the booth—not touching, but close enough that my body registers him with every breath.
The music shifts. Heavier bass. Lights strobe over his profile—blue, red, gold—and for a half-second it turns his shirt into armor.
Stop.
I drag my gaze back to the table like I can force reality to behave if I stare hard enough.
He leans in just enough that I can hear him over the noise.
"How long," he asks, voice low, "are you going to sit here pretending you're not avoiding me?"
I arch a brow. "I'm not avoiding you."
His fingers brush mine under the table—just the tips. A light, testing touch.
It could be accidental.
It isn't.
"Then talk," he says. "The silence is killing me."
I pull my hand back slowly, gently, like it might explode. "I just don't feel like talking."
That crooked half-smile again. "Funny. A little bird told me talking is your favorite sport."
My eyes narrow. "Which little bird?"
"Someone who knows you," he says. "But right now you're quiet. Guarded."
"Maybe I know when to shut up."
"And maybe," he counters, softer, "this is exactly when you shouldn't."
The IceHouse doesn't vanish—but it slides back. Like someone turned the focus knob and everything else blurred.
It's just his face. His voice. His eyes.
"You're not from here," I say, grabbing for something safe. "So…why Lindsey Isle? Why now?"
Something shifts behind his expression. It doesn't close—it rearranges. Like a door swinging half-shut.
"Family," he says. "Evan's mother and my father are close. He asked me to visit."
Plausible. Clean.
It feels like paint over an old sigil.
"And?" I push. "You had nothing better to do than come to a tiny coastal town famous for fish fries and petty gossip?"
His mouth twitches. "You'd be surprised how appealing that sounds compared to some alternatives."
"What alternatives?"
"Work."
"What kind of work?"
His gaze holds mine and then—just for a second—goes distant, like he's seeing something behind me.
"The kind that doesn't belong in a first conversation."
"Is this a conversation?" I ask. "Or are you just…observing me?"
He considers it. Doesn't deny it. "Maybe both."
My fingers tighten around my glass. "You look at me like you're checking me against a blueprint."
Will tilts his head. Studies me more openly now. "What would you do," he asks, "if I said that's not entirely wrong?"
A chill slides down my spine.
"I'd say that's creepy."
"And if I said it wasn't meant to be?" His voice drops. "Creepy, I mean. Just…relieved. And confused."
"Relieved about what?"
His hand flexes where it rests behind me. The leather creaks softly.
The air feels denser, like the room itself is holding its breath.
"That you're alive," he says quietly. "That you're here. That it's really you."
My lungs stall.
Alive. Here. You.
Those shouldn't be loaded.
They are.
"I'm right here," I say, too sharp. "In a booth. Eating wings. Very alive."
His gaze doesn't move. "Don't I know you."
It's not a question.
It's a fracture line.
We hold eye contact too long. Long enough that the neon above us feels like a spotlight and the rest of the bar becomes background noise.
Then something slips.
Not from him to me—more like from between us.
A pressure behind my eyes. A sudden wrongness in my stomach. The tiny hairs along my arms lift like they've heard thunder.
And a word blooms inside my mind.
Not spoken aloud. Not even a thought.
A shape. A meaning.
Anámnisi.
Memory.
My fork clatters against my plate. My breath catches like I've swallowed smoke.
I jerk back, shoulder thudding into the booth.
"What—" I start, and my voice cracks.
Will goes very still.
Not surprised.
Caught.
His expression is a held breath. A mistake he didn't mean to make.
"You heard that," he says.
"I—" My hands tremble on the table. "You just—You put something in my head."
"No." He shakes his head once, sharp. "I didn't do it to you."
The denial is instant. Defensive. Honest.
"That word—" I whisper. "Greek. In my mind."
His jaw tightens. "It slipped."
"It slipped?" My laugh is brittle. "That's not how anything works, Will."
His eyes flicker—pain, regret, restraint.
"Angela," he says, and my name in his mouth is a bruise, "I'm sorry."
The apology is too quick to be rehearsed. Too raw to be smooth.
It doesn't make my skin stop crawling.
The word still echoes inside me, circling like a moth around flame.
Memory.
And something in me leans toward it—hungry and desperate, like dry earth recognizing rain.
My vision wobbles.
Not a full scene. Not a clean cut.
Just ruptures.
A cold stone floor under my knees for half a blink.
The smell of smoke that isn't from the fryer.
A circle etched into the ground—spirals, eyes, crescent—glowing faintly like embers under ash.
And the sensation—sharp, unmistakable—of being contained.
Not trapped in a room.
Trapped in a rule.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
Will's voice threads in, low and urgent. "Breathe."
"I am breathing," I hiss, even as my chest refuses to pull in enough air.
He doesn't reach for me. He doesn't touch.
But his posture shifts—subtle, protective—as if he's placing himself between me and something I can't see.
"You saw something," he says.
I press my palm flat on the table. The laminated surface is sticky under my hand. Real. Mortal.
"I saw—" I swallow. "I saw a place. Not here. Stone. Smoke. And—"
The word you tries to climb out of my mouth.
I choke it back.
Will's fist tightens behind me. The leather creaks again.
"Say it," he murmurs. "What did you see?"
I hate that my voice goes small. "You were…guarding me."
His eyes close for half a second like I've hit something already bruised.
When he opens them, they're too steady. Too controlled.
"Then it's starting," he says, more to himself than to me.
Ice spreads through my ribs. "What is?"
He looks like he's about to tell me everything.
Then he doesn't.
I can practically see the restraint clamp down. The wall rebuilding.
"Nothing you're not already feeling," he says. "Your dreams. Your door. The way storms feel like they recognize you."
My stomach turns.
"Don't talk like you know me."
A sad, crooked half-smile. "I'm trying very hard to remember that I don't," he says softly. "Not yet."
The yet lands like a promise I never agreed to.
My head throbs—slow, pulsing ache at the base of my skull, like something is knocking from the inside.
"I need air," I mutter, already sliding toward the edge of the booth.
I expect him to stop me.
He doesn't.
He shifts so I can pass, eyes tracking every movement like he's afraid I'll vanish if he looks away.
"Don't go outside alone," he says quietly.
"Why?" I shoot back, voice tight. "Is the big bad world dangerous, Will?"
His jaw tightens. "You have no idea."
"Then maybe," I say, standing, "you should stop being the one making it worse."
We hold eye contact one last beat.
Then I walk away, bumping someone as I shove through the crowd, pushing the bathroom door open with force I don't recognize in myself.
Inside, I grip the sink until my knuckles go white.
Water roars from the faucet, cold and loud, but it can't drown out the echo of that missing beat in the music—the moment reality lagged and something else bled through.
My reflection flickers once. Twice. Like bad reception.
When it steadies, my pupils are blown wide. My breath comes too fast.
I press a hand to my sternum like I can keep my ribs from cracking open.
Whatever Will saw in me tonight…
I felt it too.
There's a fracture line between us now—fine and bright and deep.
Not stranger. Not friend.
Not yet enemy.
Not yet anything we have words for.
The world I've been pretending I still live in—the one with normal boys and normal classes and normal dances—feels thinner than paper. Like it could burn straight through with the smallest spark.
Because we both know what just happened.
A word slipped through a crack between us.
I saw a place that tasted like my nightmares.
And something sleeping in me rolled over—
and opened one eye.