I perch over the toilet like a gargoyle—elbows on knees, chin in my palms—trying to decide whether I'm going to lose my mind today or just pretend I haven't already.
The bathroom is too bright. Too clean. Too awake.
Morning light reflects off porcelain and tile like it's mocking me for surviving the night.
The towel hangs neatly on the rack like an accusation.
You should be normal.
You should be fine.
You should not, for example, be questioning whether your entire existence is a divine joke or a cosmic clerical error before seven a.m.
My head buzzes.
Not the cute oops, too much caffeine kind. This is full-body static—low, electric, persistent—humming under my skin and vibrating behind my eyes. Leftover voltage from a night I'm still not entirely convinced I survived.
I drag my fingers through my hair, nails catching on knots I don't remember making.
"You're fine," I tell myself. "You're alive. You're home. You're—" I swallow. "—naked, apparently. But fine."
I do not sound convincing.
With a sigh, I strip what little I'd thrown on after my weird naked-wake-up fiasco and step into the shower.
The water starts warm, then edges toward hot, pounding my shoulders like it's trying to knock sense back into me. I tilt my head forward and let it drum the back of my neck, trying to thaw the frost the night left in my bones.
It wasn't real.
It shouldn't have felt real.
But it did—in that way that sticks. Not like a normal nightmare that dissolves when you blink. Like something sliding back into the space it was carved for.
A memory dropping into its groove.
I brace my hands on the tile and close my eyes. The water roars around me, but my thoughts are louder.
They run feral.
They rip through everything I've ever known and hold it up to the light like evidence: birthdays. School. Shelby. Mom. The accident. Northwood. Will.
Is there a seam here?
A crack?
A glitch?
Does any of it feel… edited?
Will's voice threads through the spiral like barbed wire.
Someone stole your memories, Aetheria. They didn't erase you. They buried you.
I squeeze my eyes tighter.
A flash—temple swallowed in starlight, figures chanting my name, a man with ice eyes and grief carved into his bones.
I choke, and it evaporates.
Then a line slams into me—faint, blurry, but demanding:
She will be forced to forget us to buy time.
I jolt, inhale steam, and nearly choke on it.
"Did I remember that right," I rasp to no one, "or did my brain just… make it up because it's panicking?"
I don't know.
That terrifies me more than certainty ever could.
The library lands in my mind like the only sane thought left.
I have to go back. To the scroll. To the exact words. I need to see them with my eyes, not my fear.
Because if Will is right—if memories can be suppressed and not destroyed—then something inside me isn't gone.
It's locked.
A vault.
An archive.
A tomb with my name carved into the door.
And I have no idea how to open it.
I shut the water off before it turns lukewarm and leaves me shaking in the quiet.
As I step out, the towel brushes my arm and I flinch like I've been struck.
My heart sprints—then trips over itself—and it takes me a full two seconds to realize I'm overreacting to cotton and not claws.
I press my palm flat to my chest until the rhythm steadies.
Barely.
I am a disaster. A walking malfunction of nerves and nightmares.
Shorts.
My vintage Strawberry Shortcake shirt—the one my mother bought oversized when I was a baby, back when she still believed in planning ahead. I've worn it every birthday since. Tradition, superstition, muscle memory.
Today, I knot the hem at my waist. It doesn't hang loose anymore. It fits.
No makeup. If anyone wants Instagram-ready birthday Angela, they can slap on a filter and pretend that's the truth.
I catch my reflection while brushing my teeth.
Pale.
Shadowed eyes.
Jaw set like it's holding a line.
"Well," I tell the mirror, foam clinging to my mouth, "at least you're committing to the theme."
The girl staring back doesn't smile.
But she doesn't look away either.
Step one in regaining control of your life is simple: leave the house before someone starts singing happy birthday to me.
My parents planned some "big birthday surprise" for my brother and me. Joint celebration. Double chaos.
Today? Hard no.
Today all I want is my mother's keys, the car, and Shelby's house. Maybe the Academy library. Maybe a black hole.
I barrel down the stairs—ponytail half-tied, shoes untied, phone and keys trapped in one hand.
Halfway down, the smell hits me.
Blueberry pancakes.
My absolute weakness.
My traitor stomach growls and my feet speed up on instinct—maple syrup, melted butter, blue streaks of berry—
I round the corner into the kitchen and freeze.
My parents.
Sitting together.
Talking.
And across from them—
Will.
For a second my brain refuses to process it. Like seeing a dragon politely filing taxes at your kitchen table.
My eye twitches. My eyebrow raises.
The man who dropped a mythological grenade into my life.
The man who vanished for a week.
The man who rearranged my reality and apparently decided my kitchen was the appropriate place to finish the job.
Oh.
Oh, hell no.
If there weren't witnesses, I'd flip a chair and hurl myself into the sun. Instead, I stand in the doorway radiating enough restrained rage to power a mid-sized city.
He looks infuriatingly normal.
Jeans. Dark henley. Hair mussed like he didn't sleep either. Blue eyes bright as he laughs at something my dad just said.
He is laughing.
My glare could curdle milk.
Then my eyes slide to my parents—
My parents, who haven't willingly been in the same room since I was a kid unless it involved court papers, holidays, or my grandmother weaponizing guilt.
Now they're shoulder to shoulder at the table, coffee mugs almost touching.
Like they're aligned.
Like this was planned.
Nope.
The universe does not get to hand me that image before caffeine.
Mom sees me first.
"Happy birthday, sweet girl!" she cries, launching out of her chair fast enough it screeches.
She crush-hugs me—arms locked too tight, too desperate.
Not a mom hug.
A hold-on hug.
Like she's afraid if she loosens her grip I might slip through her hands entirely.
I half-hug back, then wriggle free and beeline for the coffee maker because if I don't get caffeine in my bloodstream immediately, I'm going to start screaming in languages no one in this house speaks.
My mug sits ready on the counter—charcoal stonewear, imperfect, chipped rim, black brushed lettering:
NOT TODAY.
Dad gave it to me when I was sixteen. Top five moments of my life.
"How'd you sleep?" Mom asks too brightly.
"Horribly," I growl as I pour. "My room felt like an oven. And I'm pretty sure I'm getting sick."
A prickling crawls up the back of my neck.
Someone is watching me.
I don't want to look.
So of course I do.
Will's eyes are locked on mine over my dad's shoulder—sharp, unblinking, too intent. Like he's cataloging damage. Like he's checking to see what survived.
"Oh no!" Mom blurts. "Your father can adjust the temperature—we don't want you catching a chill. Today's humid too, we don't want anything ruining your birthday."
Her voice trembles on the last word.
She presses her fingers to my forehead.
I gently swat her hand away and take my first sip of coffee—black with sugar, the way gods intended.
When I finally meet her eyes, she looks away.
Fast.
There it is.
She's hiding something.
She's scared.
Of what?
Of me?
Or of the man sitting calmly at my table like he belongs here?
Dad clears his throat like he's trying to plug a leak with small talk. "We've got a big day planned, kiddo," he says. Too hearty. "Thought we'd start it off right. Pancakes. Bacon. Whipped cream from the can, the way you like it."
I stare at him.
My father does not do canned whipped cream unless we're trying to fix a childhood wound with dairy.
"I thought you had work," I say slowly.
"I took the morning off," he says. "It's not every day my little girl turns twenty-one."
He smiles.
It doesn't reach his eyes.
He looks proud. Nervous. Like he's memorizing my face.
My stomach dips.
Mom busies herself at the stove like pancakes are a full-contact sport. Every time she glances back at me, her mouth forces a smile, then drops the second she thinks I'm not looking.
They're not just being nice.
They're terrified.
I flick a look at Will.
He isn't looking at me now. He's focused on my dad, nodding along, jaw too tight. One finger taps his mug once—then stills, like he caught himself.
He looks like a grenade someone set politely on the table.
"Come sit," Mom urges. "Eat. We can open a few gifts before—"
"Before what?" I cut in.
Three sets of eyes snap to me.
"Before the rest of the day starts," Dad says quickly. "Your brother's still asleep. Cake later. But this morning is just us. Family."
Will's gaze flicks to me for half a second, then away.
Family.
My skin crawls.
I sit anyway. Standing here detonating in the doorway won't get me answers.
Mom sets a plate in front of me—blueberry pancakes stacked like an altar, butter melting over the edges, syrup already drizzled.
It smells like every safe morning I can remember.
My throat tightens.
I pick up my fork, more out of habit than hunger.
No one speaks.
Utensils clink. Coffee sips. The wall clock ticks too loudly.
"So," Dad says finally, too loud, "Will was just telling us about his… job. Security work, right?"
"Something like that," Will says smoothly. "Mostly travel. Helping people get where they need to go safely."
My eyes snap to him.
Get where they need to go safely.
Right.
Dad nods. "How'd you and Evan meet again?"
"Family reunions," Will says. "On his mom's side. Lots of loud people. Lots of food. Easy to get lost in the shuffle."
"Ah." Dad's brow lifts. "Italian?"
"Ancient…. Greek," I mutter, rolling my eyes.
Will's fork pauses.
Mom's hand tightens on the spatula.
No one corrects me.
I take a bite and can't taste anything past the metallic tang of dread.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, setting my fork down.
The question lands like a knife.
Mom bites her lower lip. Dad stares at his plate. Will lifts his head, eyes locking onto mine—careful, controlled, calm in a way that feels dangerous.
"Will's joining us for the day," Mom says fast. "We thought—you liked him. And it's your birthday. So… more the merrier?"
"Oh," I say flatly. "So the guy I met weeks ago gets invited to the Family Birthday Extravaganza. That tracks."
"Angela," Dad warns. "Don't be rude. He's our guest."
A short, humorless laugh escapes me.
Rude.
Right.
I stare at my pancakes so they won't see the panic in my eyes.
Because under the small talk, something is pulsing in the air.
A countdown.
I feel it.
A chair slides back.
His.
I feel him before I hear him.
Heat rolls toward me as he stands. My whole body goes taut like a wire pulled too tight.
I pretend I don't notice.
I am lying.
Badly.
He stops behind my chair.
The world narrows to the space between my shoulder blades and his chest.
He leans down. I smell him—winter air, sandalwood, smoke.
My grip tightens on the fork until the metal bites my palm.
He wraps one arm around me in a loose, casual arc—a perfectly innocent birthday hug to anyone watching.
But I feel everything underneath it.
The heat of his chest at my back.
The too-fast thud of his heart.
The weight of his hand anchoring my shoulder.
His breath at the side of my neck.
My stomach flips.
A slow, dark heat unfurls low in my belly—instinct moving faster than thought.
I hate it.
I hate that my body leans into him like it remembers.
I hate that he knows.
"You have no idea how gorgeous you are when you're angry," he breathes, so soft only I can hear.
My pulse stutters—then sprints.
Rage and want collide until I can't tell which one is winning.
Then, louder—bright enough for my parents:
"Happy birthday, Angela."
As if he didn't just light me on fire and smile like a polite guest.
Mom makes a small sound. "Isn't that sweet?"
I could scream.
Will releases me slowly—reluctantly, if I'm not imagining it—and sits back down like he didn't just restart my nervous system.
The room blurs.
The sunlight. The pancakes. My parents' faces. The clock.
There's only the feeling of my life split clean down the middle.
Before Will: nightmares that were just nightmares. Magic that fit into jars and circles and margins of old books. A future I could outline in bullet points.
After: Keres at my window. Marks on my skin that flare under his touch. Parents who look at me like I'm a bomb they're trying to disarm without instructions. A man at my table who says I'm older than my own bloodline and bound to him by a ceremony the sky itself witnessed.
I stare at my plate and grip my fork until my hand aches.
No amount of birthdays, coffee, or pretending will ever drag me back to before.