He stands at the edge of the porch, back to me, hands in his pockets.
The tension locked into his shoulders at the table has shifted. It's still there—coiled tight under his shirt—but the edges are softer.
Like leaving the house let him drop one mask.
And half of another.
The air hits me again—cooler than it should be, carrying the smell of wet grass and distant rain even though the sky is a bright, brittle blue. The yard looks ordinary. The world does not feel ordinary.
Will doesn't turn right away.
The space between us hums, stretched tight like a wire.
"Why are you here?" I ask. My voice comes out sharper than I meant. "Really."
Slowly, he turns.
Morning light catches his eyes and makes them too bright—icy, stormy, wrong for a human man standing barely a distance from my front door. His hair is mussed like sleep never fully happened. Shadow darkens his jaw.
He takes me in.
Messy hair. Birthday fury. Hands still faintly trembling from the table I just escaped.
His gaze is gentle and devastating at the same time, like he's memorizing the version of me that still thinks it's allowed to be ordinary.
"For once," he says quietly, "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
I hate that something in my chest shifts anyway.
"I didn't ask you to be here," I snap. "I didn't invite you into my house, I didn't ask you to talk to my parents, and I definitely didn't ask you to hijack my birthday and my life."
"No," he agrees. "You didn't."
"Then why?" I press. "Why my kitchen? Why them?" My voice cracks around the last word—sharp, exposed. "They have nothing to do with this."
His expression flickers, and for the first time he looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
"They have everything to do with it," he says. "They raised you. They kept you here. Kept you hidden."
"Hidden," I repeat, bitter. "Is that what you call a Ker in my shower trying to drag me to Erda?"
Something dark flashes behind his eyes.
"That," he says, voice dropping, "is why I'm here."
He steps closer—not crowding, not trapping, but close enough that my skin registers his heat like it's a memory.
"Because they found you again," he continues. "Because they're done waiting. And because—" His gaze locks on mine, steady as a verdict. "It's your birthday, Aetheria."
I flinch at the way he says it, like it has weight. Like it's a key turning.
"You don't get to call me that name," I spit. "Not today."
He doesn't apologize. He doesn't soften.
He looks at me like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to this porch, this moment, this world.
"You dragged my entire family into this," I push. "Do you get that? You sat at my table. You smiled at my mom. You made blueberry pancakes feel like a funeral rehearsal. How is that protecting me?"
His shoulders lift on a rough breath.
"Because they deserve the truth too," he says. "And because I would rather stand in their kitchen and lie badly for an hour than let them wake up and find your bed empty."
The words punch the air from my lungs.
My anger sputters—then roars back, because the alternative is letting his fear touch me.
And if I let it touch me, I will break.
Tiny splinters press into my soles. I curl my toes, anchoring myself in anything that isn't him.
"You don't get to talk about my bed," I say flatly. "Or where I will or won't be tomorrow."
"Someone has to," he says, low. "Because whether you want it or not, this day is a hinge. Once it swings, it doesn't swing back."
"Stop talking in riddles," I bite out. "If something's going to happen, say it. If I'm in danger, say it. If I'm not, then leave me alone and let me go about my day like I'm a normal college student doing normal people stuff and pretend my biggest problem is mascara."
He studies me, and the wind shifts—cool and sharp—carrying a dog barking two houses down. Inside, muffled through glass, a plate clinks softly, like my mother's hands are shaking too badly to keep pretending.
"You are in danger," Will says. No poetry. No flourish. Just truth. "You've always been. But today the clock speeds up."
My lungs feel too small.
I cross my arms tighter, lift my chin, and meet his eyes head-on.
"Then you're going to start answering me," I say. "All of it. No more half-truths. No more dramatic timing. You want me to trust you? You want me to go anywhere with you? You want me to even consider believing you?"
Heat spikes under my sternum—sharp, bright—and the porch light behind me flickers even though it isn't on.
I swallow hard.
"Then you're going to tell me what you did to my parents," I finish. "What you know about me that I don't. And why it feels like the moment I say yes or no to you—today—doesn't just change my night."
My voice drops, raw.
"It changes everything."
His expression shifts.
Relief—quick, fragile—flickers across his face. Not because I'm calm. Not because I'm happy.
Because I finally stopped running.
He nods once. Slow. Almost reverent.
"All right," he says. "But not here."
That catches me.
His gaze flicks to the living room window. To the curtains. To the place where my mother is pretending not to press their ears to the glass.
"Your house is loud," he murmurs. "And you're already surging. If you flare again on the porch, you'll scare her worse."
My jaw tightens.
I hate that he's right.
I step off the porch into the yard, drizzle tapping my overheated skin like rain on a lit fuse. The grass is cold and slick under my feet.
I cut across the wet lawn toward the old swing set—far enough from the windows that she can see me but not hear me. Far enough that if I break, I don't break her with me.
By the time Will rounds the side of the house, I'm already spinning to face him.
"Why are you doing this?" My voice cracks, tight with anger and shame and something close to fear. "You vanished for a week, Will. A week."
My emotions spike—and the metal swing set answers.
Chains tremble. The A-frame gives a low groan, like it's bracing. Not the trees. Not the neighbor's flag. Just this pocket of air around us, tightening, listening.
The wind picks up, quick and sharp, swirling only here.
The porch light flickers again.
A metallic taste floods my mouth.
"No—" I whisper. "No, no, no—"
Heat crawls up my throat. Pressure builds behind my eyes like a migraine being born. The air thickens, charged, vibrating against my skin.
The swings jerk once, hard, as if invisible hands yanked them.
Panic slices through my anger.
"Stop," I choke, fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. "Please—stop—"
Whatever is waking up inside me doesn't listen.
It wants out.
The air cracks—not thunder, not lightning. More like reality splintering at the seam.
The chains rattle wildly, metal screaming.
Will moves.
He doesn't grab me. He doesn't bark orders. He doesn't flinch.
He closes the distance with steady steps and cups my face with the gentlest touch imaginable, like I'm both glass and a live wire.
"Angela," he says low, grounded. "Look at me."
I don't want to.
I do it anyway.
His eyes lock on mine—unblinking, fearless.
One word. "Breathe."
The world stutters.
The buzzing cuts out.
The wind drops like someone turned a dial.
The swings slow, then still.
My breath shivers out of me as my knees threaten to fold. I sag forward, forehead almost hitting his chest. His hands stay where they are, holding me together without trapping me.
For a heartbeat all I hear is rain and my own ragged breathing.
"If you let it loose like that," Will murmurs, "you won't be able to pull it back."
My heart stutters.
He says it like he knows. Like he's seen it. Like he remembers the aftermath.
His hands ease away, but the echo of his touch still reverberates under my skin.
The drizzle softens into mist.
Inside me, something gets louder—not power this time.
Horror.
Because what just happened wasn't random. It wasn't a mood swing. It wasn't me being dramatic.
Something answered.
My breathing spikes—too fast, too shallow.
Oh God. I can't—I can't—
My hands start to shake. My vision tunnels. The yard tilts. The swing set gives the tiniest shiver again, like it's waiting for permission to move.
"This isn't normal," I choke, stumbling back. "Something's wrong with me."
The worst part isn't the thought that something is wrong.
It's the sick, closing realization that it might not be wrong at all.
It might be inevitable.
Will steps toward me.
I flinch anyway.
"I'm not safe," I whisper. The words barely make it out. "My family shouldn't be near me. Nobody should be near me." A sob claws up my throat. "Will… I'm evil."
He comes closer like I'm made of glass and explosives—slow, deliberate, careful.
"You are not evil."
"You told me I'm—" The word catches like a shard. "—a goddess. And I don't even know what that means. And now this is happening and I can't control it and—"
Panic breaks open fully.
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into my sides like I can hold myself together by force.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," I whisper, and I mean it down to the bone. "I don't want to turn into something I can't stop."
Will reaches me—not with force, not with magic, but with presence.
He gently takes my wrists and eases my arms away so I don't bruise myself, guiding my hands outward.
Then he places my palms flat against his chest.
Right over his heartbeat.
"Feel that," he says, soft but commanding. "I'm right here. Breathe. I'm alive. You didn't break me."
His heartbeat thumps steady under my fingers—too human, too real.
He lays his hands over mine, anchoring without caging.
"You're not losing yourself," he says, firmer. "You're waking up."
"I don't want this," I rasp.
"I know." His voice drops lower, steady as bedrock. "But wanting doesn't change what you are."
A broken sound slips out of me. "I don't want to be—"
He inhales like it hurts him too.
"You already are," he says quietly.
Rain darkens his shirt, clinging to his shoulders. He doesn't move. He doesn't look away.
I'm shaking.
He's not.
And that terrifies me almost as much as the power—because some small, traitorous part of me feels safe like this.
That might be the worst part.
My eyes squeeze shut—and memories slam into me. Not soft. Not linear. Jagged. Evidence.
Six years old, crying in the backyard after being scolded. The wind spiraling around me—only me—like something old leaned close.
Seven, the Barbie incident. Every bulb on the street popping in sequence like gunshots.
Sixteen, waking from a nightmare. Every window in my room blasting open on a windless night.
The memories don't feel like stories.
They feel like receipts.
I open my eyes on a strangled inhale.
"I've been doing this my whole life," I whisper. "It didn't start now. It was always there."
My hands go slack against his chest.
"I thought I was just… too much," I admit, voice shaking. "Too emotional. Undisciplined. Broken."
Will's jaw clenches.
"You were not born broken."
Fresh tears blur everything.
"But things kept… happening," I choke. "Every time I lost it, something moved. Something shattered. Something—answered."
His fingers tighten lightly around my wrists.
"Your power reacted without guidance," he says. "It protected you the only way it could."
"It destroys," I whisper.
"It survived," he corrects, fierce and unyielding. "So did you."
Thunder rumbles in the distance—not storm thunder.
Something deeper. A vibration more felt than heard.
My breath catches.
"If it keeps growing…" My voice collapses. "I don't know what I'll become."
Something raw flickers across his face—grief, guilt, both. He swallows hard.
"You do," he says quietly. "You've seen her."
"Who?"
He leans close, forehead almost brushing mine.
"You," he whispers.
The word lands like a blow.
Behind us, inside the house, a floorboard creaks.
A shadow passes across the living room window—too slow to be casual. Too deliberate to be accidental.
Someone is watching.
Or listening.
My stomach drops.
If I lose control again, I won't be the only one who pays for it.
I step back just enough to breathe, to think, to feel space around me.
"I've been losing control my whole life," I whisper. "And someone… managed it. Covered it. Called it discipline."
The truth lands heavier.
My voice shakes.
"I wasn't broken," I say. "I was… altered."
Will's eyes sharpen like I just named the crime.
I take one step closer, rain and tears mixing on my face.
"Who did this to me?"
Before he can answer, the lights inside the house flicker.
Not like a power surge.
Like something massive and unseen just moved through the rooms.
A low bass vibration rolls through the air, so deep it hums through my bones.
Will goes completely still.
Too still.
"No," he breathes. "He shouldn't be able to reach this far."
My blood turns to ice.
"He?" I whisper.
Will's gaze snaps to mine.
"Aetheria," he says, and this time the name isn't tenderness—it's urgency. "We're running out of time."
The house flickers again.
Intentional.
A presence.
A watcher.
And with a sick lurch, I realize reality hasn't just blinked around me.
It's starting to answer someone else.