Page 10

DORIAN

D orian stood outside Autumn’s bedroom door, the mug in his hands gently steaming, scent of chamomile curling into the air like a quiet promise.

The inn was hushed around him, a different kind of quiet than usual. Not the haunted stillness, not the expectant hush that crept along the baseboards and windowsills, but something gentler. Like the house itself was holding its breath, watching, maybe listening.

He shifted on his feet. His boots made no sound on the floorboards he’d reinforced last week. The new coat of polish hadn’t dulled the creak; it had just deepened it, made it richer. Every part of Briar Hollow had personality. Most of it was haunted. Some of it was just damn stubborn.

He knocked once, knuckles soft on wood. “Hey. It’s me.”

A beat. Then her voice—soft, raw. “It’s open.”

He nudged the door open with his foot and stepped into the low light of her room.

The single lamp on the dresser gave off a faint amber glow, casting flickering shadows along the walls.

She sat curled up against the headboard in one of her knit seaters, sleeves too long, collar loose.

Her eyes were tired but alert, her fingers wrapped around her knees like she might fly apart if she didn’t hold herself together.

“Brought you this.” He handed her the tea, fingers brushing hers deliberately as she took it.

“Thanks,” she murmured. “Still trying to get the cold out of my bones.”

He didn’t need to ask which cold. He could still feel the ghost of it too—the Hollow Man’s presence lingering like smoke in the corners of his mind.

He sat on the end of the bed, not touching her, not pressing. Just there .

“You’ve banished spirits before,” he said after a long silence. “Lots of them.”

She nodded.

“But this one…” His voice dropped. “He’s different.”

Autumn’s gaze met his. Steady. Haunted.

“He’s not just angry,” she said. “He’s… aware. Calculated. Most ghosts are loops—grief on repeat, trauma echoing until it fades. But this thing? He knows what he’s doing. He’s picking his moments. Testing me.”

“No,” Dorian said quietly. “He’s testing us. ”

That surprised her. She blinked.

He leaned back against the headboard, stretching out beside her with the kind of ease that only came from a man comfortable in his skin. He wasn’t trying to crowd her—just share the space.

Her voice was low. “You think it’s because of… whatever this thing is between us?”

“I think he sees it,” Dorian said. “And I think he hates it.”

Autumn stared down at her tea. “Maybe he’s not the only one.”

He glanced sideways. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Just… maybe I’m not built for this. For being close. Every time it starts to feel good, I remember why I stopped letting people in.”

He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence settle again, let the house breathe.

Then he said, “When I was thirteen, I got caught in a thunderstorm on the edge of Bear’s Hollow.”

She looked up, brow furrowed. “Random segue.”

“Hang on.” He smiled faintly. “It was pitch black. My flashlight died. I tripped over a root and landed face-first in a creek bed. Thought I was gonna die right there. But then I saw this flicker of light—tiny, maybe ten yards off. I thought it was fireflies at first.”

“What was it?”

“Turns out? It was a lantern left by a local hunter. Left it for a friend who got lost years before. Said he never found him, but he always left a light. Just in case.”

Autumn was silent.

Dorian turned toward her slightly. “Point is, sometimes the thing that finds you in the dark isn’t a monster. Sometimes it’s a light someone left behind. Something saying, ‘Hey, I got you.’”

She looked at him like she wanted to argue. Then she just… didn’t.

Instead, she reached up, tugged gently at the sleeve of his shirt. “Stay?”

The single word hit him like a punch to the gut.

He moved slow, like not to spook her, kicking off his boots and sliding onto the bed beside her, keeping a respectful distance. The kind of closeness that said I’m here if you want me, not I need something from you.

She lay on her side facing him, tea abandoned on the nightstand, fingers curled under her chin. He couldn’t stop watching her—how the flicker of the lamp caught in her eyes, how the vulnerability softened the edges of her usual guardedness.

“Do you believe in past lives?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked. “You mean, like déjà vu or fate or…”

“Like maybe I’ve been here before. Maybe I was part of this place once. Part of him .”

Dorian’s jaw tensed. He hated that idea. Hated it with the kind of silent fury that made his bear rise under his skin.

“You’re not his,” he said. “Whatever tether he thinks he has, it ends here.”

She searched his face. “How can you be so sure?”

He reached out then, fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve. Just enough to feel the heat of her skin. “Because I’ve felt you,” he said. “Your magic. Your fear. Your fight. And it’s not his. It’s yours. You belong to you , Autumn.”

She was quiet for a long time after that.

And then, without a word, she shifted closer. He didn’t move. Just wrapped his arms around her, his warmth surrounding her like a barrier against whatever ghosts might creep in.

They didn’t kiss. Didn’t touch beyond that. But it felt more intimate than anything else he’d known.

They continued talking throughout the night about her past work, his old job, stories that had made them who they are… well, bits and pieces they chose to share anyway.

Eventually, her breathing slowed as he told her a story of his ranger days and an abandoned baby kit. And when the first light of dawn crept across the windowsill, Autumn was still there, breathing slow and steady in his arms as her eyelids rested.

Dorian knew as he watched her finally letting herself be surrounded in peace that he’d wait forever if he had to.