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Luna

The stench hits me first—the sharp, wet reek of rot and damp earth curling in the narrow throat of the entryway like a living thing. It clings to the cracked plaster walls, oozes from the muddy footprints stamped across the floorboards I scrubbed clean yesterday. The scent is foul, festering, and so deeply embedded in the grain of the wood it feels like this house will never be clean again.

I stand in the doorway, fists curled tight at my sides, staring at the chaos like it might rearrange itself if I look hard enough. Mud spatters the walls, dark and glistening, trailing all the way to the crooked staircase. It’s smeared across the rug, crusted onto the boots tossed haphazardly by the door, streaked over the doorframe itself like a storm came through and had the courtesy to wipe its feet on our bones.

My eye twitches.

“Silas,” I call, too calm, too even.

No answer.

I raise my voice, sharp enough to cut through the paper-thin walls. “Silas.”

The crash upstairs is immediate—something knocking over, a thud that shakes the ceiling, followed by the unmistakable sound of Silas tripping over his own existence.

A beat later, he appears at the top of the staircase like he’s stepping onto a stage he owns. His hair is a wreck, damp and curling wildly around his forehead, but it’s the green tips thatstop me cold. Bright, electric green bleeding into the darkness like poison ivy winding through nightshade.

He grins, lopsided and unrepentant. "Hey, darling."

I arch a brow, shifting my weight onto one hip, crossing my arms. "You’re going to tell me why there’s mud all over the godsdamn house. And why your hair looks like you lost a fight with a forest sprite."

He bounds down the stairs two at a time, barefoot, wearing the most ridiculous pair of pants I’ve ever seen—neon, striped, too tight around the thighs, loose at the calves, like someone dared him to look unhinged and he took it personally.

“Good news and bad news," he announces, skidding to a halt in front of me, planting his hands on his hips like he’s about to deliver a royal decree. "Bad news is, the mud’s mine. Good news is, Ambrose dyed my hair.”

I blink. Slowly. "Why?"

Silas shrugs, grinning wider. "Apparently, I needed to match my personality."

"You tracked this shit everywhere."

He points at me, eyes sparkling, like he’s just solved a mystery. "Actually, no. You’re gonna wanna blame Ambrose."

My jaw ticks. "Ambrose doesn’t frog-hunt in the woods at two in the morning."

Silas’s grin turns sly, mischievous. "No, but he did enchant my shampoo."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Why do I even ask?"

He rocks back on his heels, balancing too close to tipping over, clearly enjoying himself. "Because you love me."

"And you’ve turned my entryway into a swamp."

He glances around, as if only now noticing the destruction. "Well. It’s got character."

"You’re going to clean it."

Silas leans in, dropping his voice, too close, too much like he’s about to sell me the worst idea I’ve ever heard. "Or… you can change your clothes and come with me."

I narrow my eyes. "Come with you where?"

“To get payback, obviously." He twirls on his heel like he’s dancing, spins toward the stairs, then looks over his shoulder. "Ambrose thinks he’s clever, but he’s not. I’ve got a plan. I need backup."

I glance past him at the wreckage—the mud-streaked walls, the ruined rug, the puddle still seeping into the cracks of the wood like rot—and I shouldn’t. I should tell him to clean it, to grow up, to stop dragging chaos into every corner of this house we’ve managed to carve out of nothing.

But the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the light in his eyes—I know that smile. It’s the only thing keeping him stitched together some days.

I sigh, rubbing the heel of my hand over my brow. "You’re an idiot."