“I know,” he said, and I could almost taste his words. “And I enjoy every second of it.”
I pressed my hand against his chest and pushed him back, just enough to breathe.
“Since you know what you’re doing to me,” I said, steady but shaking inside, “then enjoy it somewhere else.”
He chuckled, low and smug.
“You’re such an asshole,” I muttered, pointing at the door. “Get out.”
Instead, he stepped closer. His fingers brushed my waist as he leaned in, inhaling slowly at the curve of my neck, his nose skimming through my hair.
He smiled.
Then he left without a word, closing the door behind him.
I collapsed onto the bed, the truth of what he had done sinking into my bones like cold water.
They say actions speak louder than words. But what happens when neither person knows how to speak at all? One of us always overthinking, the other unable to express anything. Maybe this was never meant to be anything more than silence between us.
They say overthinkers love the hardest, because we notice everything. We analyze every glance, every pause, every breath. We fall before we realize we’ve jumped. We love people before they even know they’ve been seen.
But the truth is, we also hurt the most. Because we already know the ending before the story even begins. Overthinking is just preparing for the worst. So when the worst finally happens, we can tell ourselves we were ready for it.
Only, I wasn’t ready for Dorian.
Not a ghost. Not this house. Not the years I spent building walls thick enough to survive anyone.
Because with just one word, with one touch, he tore it all down, and I collapsed.
TWELVE
DORIAN
25 YEARS OLD
Istood in the kitchen, staring out at the garden. My eyes settled on the patches of shallow earth where the red roses grew.
For a moment, I blinked against the sunlight. It was so bright today, almost blinding. The light pulled me backward, and flashes of memory were dragging me to the first night I returned here to Gloomsbury Manor.
Everyone had been asleep. The house held its breath the way it always did when I came back, like it wasn’t sure I belonged here. I slipped outside into the garden and knelt behind the roses, exactly where I used to bury the box I didn’t want anyone to find when I was six.
I dug with my bare hands until the soil gave way.
The box was still there. I took it close to my lap, brushing off the dirt, then opened it like something sacred. Inside was a silver necklace with a small cross that had once belonged to Ian. I fastened it around my neck and kissed the charm.
There were two Polaroids. One showed Ian smiling, holding the stray kitten he had found by the road, the same one that slipped out the door and left the very next day. The other was of the two of us, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, faces pressed close, smiling. It was that brotherly love.
I missed him. So deeply, it hurt in places I didn’t know could feel pain.
Losing someone who meant that much doesn’t just leave an absence. It leaves a hollow nothing that no one and nothing can ever fill. You can try. You can throw everything and everyone into the space where they once were, but the hole stays. It always stays.
I had never counted the money we took from the bank. I never planned to spend it. I didn’t even know what I would use it for. I only took it because they were going to blame me anyway. Maybe I really was a thief, or maybe I was just hungry. Hungry for safety. Hungry because I knew what it was like to starve, to scavenge through the streets, to be invisible.
I pushed the bag of money into the hole along with the white ski mask I wore that night, then I started to bury it all.
There was no need to hide anymore. Not in Gloomsbury. I was home.
But the ghosts here see through everything.
