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So I settle for boiling water.

For tea.

Because that’s what we’ve been reduced to in this place. Tea and frog-infested rooms and crumbling floors under our feet while the Hollow keeps trying to chew us alive.

The kettle groans low over the flame, and I lean back against the chipped counter, arms folded, listening to the water bubble. The window above the sink is cracked, a sliver of light crawling in from the horizon—the village beyond us still half-asleep, the cathedral’s spires cutting jagged against the bruised sky.

A moment’s peace.

Brief.

Temporary.

And then footsteps behind me. Light. Familiar.

"Ambrose?" Luna’s voice, rough-edged with sleep, curls down my spine like a dangerous promise.

I glance over my shoulder.

She’s barefoot, her hair a riot around her face, one of Silas’s shirts slung over her frame like it belongs to her—which, at this point, it might as well. Her eyes narrow when she sees me at the stove.

"Didn’t peg you for a tea man," she murmurs, voice low, slicing right through me.

I drag my gaze over her, slow. Deliberate. "Didn’t peg you for the type to frog-bomb someone’s bed, and yet."

She grins lazily, stepping further into the kitchen like she owns the ground beneath her feet. Like she owns me.

The kettle wails sharply, shrill and unforgiving. I turn back, kill the flame, pour the water over the bitter leaves waiting in the chipped mug.

"You can’t sleep?" she asks behind me.

Her voice is softer now. Too soft.

I don’t answer right away. Watch the steam curl up from the mug like it wants to crawl inside my mouth and burn me from the inside out.

"Didn’t want to," I say finally.

A beat of silence. Then—

"I miss coffee too," she says, quiet.

It’s not about the coffee.

We both know it.

Her footsteps scrape against the floor, and I glance back just as she settles herself across from me, leaning against the other counter, studying me like I’m something she’s decided to dissect.

"You miss more than that," she says. Not a question.

I don’t give her the satisfaction of answering.

But my eyes flick to my pocket.

And her mouth curves, slow and dangerous. Like she knows.

Riven

It feels like we’ve moved in. That’s the worst part of it. Weeks bleed into weeks, and suddenly this house—the one Silas somehow conned the villagers into selling him for a handful of coin and promises he never intends to keep—feels like a cage we’ve decorated. The floorboards still groan under every step. The roof still leaks when the Hollow spits rain. And the walls breathe when you’re not looking.