Sarah stood in front of the fire, her clothes drying slowly, but her bones remained cold. Ace had left the room, claiming he needed something from upstairs. She knew better. He was giving her space—or maybe he needed it more than she did.
The house had always made her feel small. Every wall whispered, every floorboard knew secrets. And the shadows? They had names she'd never dared speak aloud.
She moved toward the bookshelf. Her fingers hovered over the spines. The same titles. The same dust. A glass dome still held the black feather she once found on his pillow after waking alone in his bed. A warning. Or a souvenir.
A door creaked above. She turned sharply.
Footsteps.
No—too soft for Ace.
Then she remembered.
This house was always too full of things that should've been gone.
"Still listening to ghosts?" Ace's voice startled her. He had returned, silently as always, with a blanket draped over one arm and something small in the other hand—her favorite mug.
He offered it. Tea. Hot. Gentle.
It made her angrier than it should have.
"You think this fixes things?" she asked, accepting it anyway.
"No," he said. "But it keeps you from freezing to death while you're lying to me."
She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and sat on the edge of the leather couch. "I didn't come here to fight."
Ace sat across from her, eyes never leaving hers. "Then what did you come for, Sarah?"
A long pause. Then—
"I think someone followed me," she whispered.
He didn't react. Not at first.
Then he leaned back, slow and deliberate. "You think… or you know?"
"I know."
The flames cracked sharply between them.