I swallow hard. My hands tremble around the string of lights. “No. It was nothing.”
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Get those up before the guests arrive. I’ll get the ladder for the porch.”
He leaves, footsteps heavy on the stairs, and I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
But the feeling lingers.
That heat. That hunger. He’s out there. I know he is.
The afternoon slides into evening faster than I expect. One moment I’m tangled in boxes of orange and black decorations, the next the sky outside has darkened into an indigo canvas streaked with the first hints of night. The air feels charged, restless, as if the whole world knows something is about to happen.
Pumpkins line the front steps, their carved faces crooked and mischievous. Cobwebs stretch across corners of the living room, catching the glint of the porch light. I drape Andrew’s old skeleton garland across the bannister, my hands trembling when I realize one of the paper skulls still has a doodle he’d drawn in marker years ago. A crooked grin with fangs. My throat tightens, and for a moment I have to sit down on the stairs to breathe.
It feels wrong to cry on Halloween. This was his night, his favorite. He would’ve laughed at me for tearing up over a stupid garland. But grief doesn’t follow rules. It creeps up in shadows and memories, pressing down when you least expect it.
The house smells of cinnamon candles and roasted pumpkin seeds. From the kitchen, Dad clatters with trays of food, muttering under his breath. I know he’s trying to fill the silencewith noise. He hates how quiet the house has been since Andrew died.
I climb back to my feet and continue decorating, but every time I move past a window, I pause. The reflection stares back at me — pale face, messy hair, wide eyes that look too much like Andrew’s — and behind it, only the dark of the yard. Still, my pulse spikes.
Because I swear I see something. A flicker of movement. A shadow too solid, lingering too long.
The second time I notice it, I freeze. My breath catches in my throat. I lean closer to the glass, cupping my hands to block the reflection. Nothing. Just the yard, the old oak tree, and the faint flutter of leaves in the wind.
But I can’t shake the feeling that someone is out there. Watching.
Upstairs, I shut my bedroom door and lean against it, pressing a hand to my chest. My heart won’t calm down.
The phone buzzes on my desk. A new message lights the screen.
From Unknown Number:“I’ll be there tonight. Wear something for me.”
I bite down hard on my lip, trying to ignore the shiver crawling across my skin. I don’t need to ask who it is. Iknow.
Triston Knight.
The text feels like a touch, heavy and hot, even though he isn’t here. I sink onto my bed, staring at the glow of the words, my body fighting between fear and something sharper; excitement.
I shouldn’t respond. Every warning bell in my head says not to.
But my fingers move anyway.
You shouldn’t.
It's quiet for a moment. Until the dots appear.
I already told you. You’re mine. Stop pretending you don’t feel it too.
My lungs squeeze tight. He’s not wrong. Idofeel it. I’ve felt it since that moment in the rink, since the heat of his stare burned across my skin like a brand.
I drop the phone and cover my face with my hands. I should block the number. Delete the texts. Run downstairs and confess to Dad everything I’ve been hiding.
But I don’t.
Instead, I get up and open my closet.
Outfits spill across my bed — dresses, sweaters, skirts. I dig until I find one I’d bought last week, something I wasn’t even sure why I picked out at the time. Black lace, a little too short, a little too daring. I hold it against myself in the mirror and my breath hitches.
This isn’t for me. It’s for him.
