The wind picks up. Her hair whips across her face.
“I know that feeling,” I say quietly. “Like you're standing on the edge of something, and you're not sure if it’s a beginning or an ending.”
She turns toward me. “Exactly.”
The wind howls louder. The storm is close now—I can feel it in my teeth.
Annabel presses her cheek to my chest, sudden and soft, wrapping her arms around my waist.
I don't move. I just let her rest there, still shivering, still damp, wrapped in my sweater.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For being kind.”
I press my lips to her hair, just once. A kiss too small to matter. A kiss that means everything.
And in that moment, I know something’s going to break.
Maybe it already has.
Chapter Ten
Calum
I haven’t slept in three days. Maybe four. The nights bleed into mornings, and the mornings into something else entirely, something shapeless and gray. The sea outside roars its indifference, and the waves pound the cliffs like fists.
The door creaks open before I touch it, a slow groan that shudders through the house like a living thing. Holiday House feels alive tonight—its warped floorboards and faintly salty walls pressing in as though it’s inhaling my presence, holding me tight in a grip I can’t escape.
I pour another drink. The glass feels heavy in my hand as I lift it to my lips. Bourbon. Annabel used to tease me for drinking it, called it an “old man’s liquor,” but she’d always steal the glass when she thought I wasn’t looking. I used to catch her, her smile curling like smoke as she tipped it back.
A knock jolts me. Sharp, insistent. Not the wind, not the house settling into its bones.
I set the glass down with a thud and make my way to the door, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the house’ssilence. When I open it, Jonathan Grey is standing there, framed in the glow of the porch light.
“Jonathan,” I say, my voice flat. The name feels foreign, like I’m speaking a language I’ve long forgotten. He looks the same—still tall, still polished, stillperfect.His dark hair is damp from the mist rolling off the ocean, and his sharp jaw is set tight. His eyes, though, are tired.
“Calum,” he says, and there’s something in his tone I don’t recognize. It isn’t pity, not quite, but it’s close enough to make my teeth clench.
“Why are you here?” I step aside, letting him in because it’s easier than standing there in the doorway like a fool.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shrugs off his coat, the fabric dry despite the mist falling outside. His eyes scan the room, the empty bottles lining the sideboard, the ashtray overflowing with the remnants of my insomnia. He looks back at me, his gaze steady.
“Ravensreach felt like the only place to be,” he says finally, his words slow and deliberate. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t move farther into the house. He just stands there, taking me in like he’s cataloging every inch of my unraveling.
“Funny. I thought you hated this place,” I say, my voice sharper than intended. I leave him to his judgments and cross the room, picking up my glass again. The liquor burns its way down, a welcome reprieve from the gnawing emptiness.
“I didn’t hate it,” he says, following me now, his shoes echoing against the floor. “I hated what it did to you.”
I laugh, a harsh sound that doesn’t belong to me. “Spare me the concern. You didn’t come all this way to play therapist.”
Jonathan sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s always been the composed one, the one who knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Annabel loved that about him—his easy charm, his poise. She used to call him her “steady ship” when I was the storm threatening to capsize them both.
“I’ve been grieving too, you know,” he says finally, his voice quieter now.
The words hit like a punch. I stare at him, the glass in my hand trembling just enough to spill a drop onto my wrist. “Grieving?” The word tastes bitter. “Grievingwhat,exactly?”
Jonathan’s jaw tightens.
“Annabel,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
