"It's not just her, is it," I say.
"No."
"It's all of us."
We both look up.
Theo’s in the doorway now, hair rumpled, eyes shadowed with the same exhaustion we’ve all been wearing.
None of us heard him approach. But it fits. Theo’s always been the quiet one—watching, listening, waiting for the moment to speak.
He walks to the counter, grabs a mug, but doesn’t pour anything. Just stands there, turning it in his hands like it might help him think.
"I've been having dreams too," he says quietly. "Not hers. Or maybe... not just hers."
He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't describe what he's seeing. But there's something in his voice—a weight that makes my chest tighten.
"They don't feel like memories," he continues. "They feel like warnings."
Something cold slides down my spine. "Warnings about what?"
"I don't know." Theo's grip tightens on the empty mug. "But whatever's coming... it's bigger than just us."
The air in the kitchen shifts—subtle, but I feel it. Like the pressure dropping before a storm. And for a second, just a breath, I swear I feel something respond to the spike of anxiety in my chest.
A fork on the counter lifts slightly, hovers for a heartbeat, then clicks back down.
We all stare at it.
Nobody says anything.
Theo glances at me, but doesn't comment. Doesn't ask. Just sets his mug down carefully and takes a step back.
Shit.
I clench my hands into fists and try to shake it off. But the air still feels wrong.
This isn’t just Bree anymore. It’s not just her scars lighting up or strange crowns appearing. Something’s happening to us too.
Footsteps on the stairs save me from spiraling further. Heavy, familiar treads that could only belong to Rhett and Gray. They appear together, both in sweatpants and hoodies, both carrying the same weight of sleeplessness the rest of us wear like a second skin.
"Couldn't sleep," Gray says to no one in particular, moving to lean against the counter.
"None of us can," Theo replies without looking up.
They don't need explanation. Don't ask why we're all awake at three in the morning, sitting in a kitchen that feels too quiet without Bree's easy presence. They just join the circle, settling into the familiar rhythm of shared insomnia.
Rhett takes the chair next to Wes, careful not to touch the wood with his bare hands. Gray claims his usual spot by the window. And suddenly we're all here—all except the one person who should be.
The mist drifts through the hallway as if summoned by the thought, curling toward the center of our group like it's trying to fill the empty space she's creating between us. None of us mention it. We don't need to.
I glance around the room—at these four men who've been my brothers, my anchors, my family for longer than I can remember. We've always known how to carry each other through the hard times. How to exist together in the spaces between words.
This? We'll get through this too. Probably.
Chapter 8
Wes
