Page 41 of How I Met Your Murderer

I had never minded the cold, but now I embraced it. Now, it sent a thrill through me, because it meant Eric was leaning in until our chests pressed together. Until his lips were nearly on mine, the last sliver of distance left to my words.

“I know we don’t have much time left, but I’m going to spend all of it noticing everything about you,” I whispered, even though we were alone.

And I pressed my lips to his, fierce and aching and full of everything I’d been holding back. Full of hopes and dreams a month couldn’t possibly contain, full of wishes that wouldn’t come true but that I couldn’t help making for us anyway.

Sure, he was icy, but the friction of him kissing me back flooded a rush of heat through my veins. The scrape of his teeth against my bottom lip was deliciously needy, just like the sounds he was making—that I was making, too. The pressure of his tongue inviting me to open my mouth nearly sent me straight to the afterlife, but his solid hands kept me anchored, gripping my waist like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.

But as the chill of his tongue inexpertly but enthusiastically caressed mine, waking every part of me better than the strongest tea, an unwelcome flash of memory—no, of something yet to come—intruded.

The Second Sight was back, and as usual, it had terrible timing.

In the vision, I stood in the castle foyer. The Halloween decorations that Basil and his team fussed over had multiplied like something breeding in the dark. What had been playful at the trial banquet now felt . . . off, despite a generous smattering of glitter all over the tiled stone floor. The papier-mâché ravens perched along the banister seemed to watch me with glassy, unblinking eyes. A new chandelier hung above me, its pale light steady but too bright, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the walls.

The air was still and hollow, and it smelled faintly of ash. The usual gloom had retreated to the corners, but not entirely disappeared. It clung like an old stain that refused to lift.

The place felt emptier. Not abandoned, but missing something vital, like a room after someone has left and taken all the laughter with them.

I didn’t linger.

A sharp, dragging ache made my gait uneven as I quickly half‑limped through the foyer, boots scuffing across stone and rug. My ribs throbbed in time with my heartbeat. My knuckles were scraped raw, oozing beads of blood. My clothes—not my uniform—were thrown on haphazardly: shirt twisted at the hem, jacket half‑zipped like I’d yanked it on while running. I was clearly leaving in a hurry.

I cut down the hall toward the parlor, passing a row of grinning jack‑o’-lanterns whose carved smiles seemed too wide, too knowing. Their candles didn’t flicker. They just burned, steady and silent, like they held their breath.

I checked alcoves, stairwells, even the damn dungeon of a basement—not searching, not really. Just confirming what I already felt in my bones.

And still, nothing.

The castle felt wrong without Eric’s presence. Too quiet, too empty, like the walls themselves awaited something that wasn’t coming back.

The air stayed stubbornly warm. Static. Empty.

And I turned to the front door, limping there with haste. Leaving behind a place that no longer held Eric. No more soft jokes, no more shared books, no more starlit soul-bearing on the balcony after midnight.

One way or another, come Halloween, Eric wouldn’t be here.

I wasn’t ready. I would never be ready, not when I had only just found him.

I broke our kiss, winded and reeling with the weight of grief made physical. I tried to steady myself with a hand on Eric’s shoulder, but the ache remained lodged beneath my ribs, sharp and certain. The Second Sight had shown me exactly how our story ended when it had barely begun: with Eric gone and me left behind.

Something that never got the chance to be more.

What had I expected? My job was to banish ghosts. His existence was the very thing I was supposed to erase, and yet I had never in my life wanted anyone or anything like I did him. Still shaking from the vision, I rested my forehead against his—wonderfully solid, at least for now—my breath a ghost in the cold.

Eric’s hands clutched at my waist, fingers curled like he was afraid I might be the one to vanish if we let go. Both my hands strayed to Eric’s jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, grounding myself in the impossible realness of him.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Eric looked dazed—not like he was in danger of fading, but more stunned by his new reality, like our kisses had tethered him more firmly to the world.

I had no idea how I would be able to move him on. Or what would happen in the coming month that would motivate me in the slightest to try.

Eric’s thumb brushed my waist in the comfortable quiet, a tiny, subconscious gesture that sent a thrill of needed heat through me. Then he lifted his hand, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, fingers lingering to trace the line of my temple and the curve of my cheek. It was reverent. Almost . . . wondering.

“You need to get some sleep,” he observed softly. His mouth curved, small and warm, as he added, “You look . . . what’s that word you used when you saw the flooding upstairs? Banjaxed.” And then he leaned in again. Not for another kiss, not yet, but to rest his forehead against my shoulder, arms sliding around me in a slow, careful embrace. I closed my eyes and curled into him, a hand coming up to rest at the back of Eric’s neck.

For the first time all night, my heartbeat was steady and sure. I felt at peace.

“This is the first time in years I’ve felt like I’m not just . . . drifting,” Eric confided to the curve of my shoulder. “Thank you. I—I know your bed is out in the van. Do you need . . .?”