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AUTUMN

A utumn was beginning to understand the danger of softness.

It wasn't spells or hauntings or whatever that book back at Pines & Needles had decided to air out like dirty laundry. It was Dorian, quiet, steady Dorian with those golden eyes that saw too much and touched like he knew what pieces you’d glued back together yourself.

Back at Briar Hollow, the silence felt different than usual. Less oppressive. Less haunted. More like the house itself had settled, too, as if even the spirits knew something had shifted between them in the candlelit hush of the bookshop.

Dorian headed to his room first and Autumn took a second to have a moment to think about what happened at the bookstore. But Autumn wasn’t ready to name it. Not the moment, not the feeling blooming somewhere behind her ribs like an out-of-season blossom.

She tugged off her coat and boots in the front hallway while Dorian moved toward the kitchen to put on tea, because of course he did. He always had tea. It was like his love language was warm drinks and gently looming nearby.

“I’ll grab the mugs,” she called, heading toward the cabinet just beyond the dining room.

“No worries,” he called from the pantry. “I’ve got ‘em.”

She turned the corner and stopped short.

Dorian stood at the sink with his back to her, barefoot on the hardwood floor, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that slung low on his hips and a hand towel tossed over one shoulder. The rest of him? Bare.

She froze. Not because he was shirtless. Well. Okay. Partially because he was shirtless. But mostly because she hadn’t expected the sight to feel like an incantation.

His back was strong, broad, freckled across the shoulder blades like constellations she didn’t know the names of.

His arms were thick with muscle, tensed slightly as he reached for the kettle.

And his chest—when he turned slightly, smiling without looking—was just…

a lot. Smooth and golden-toned and dusted with just enough dark hair to make her pulse stutter.

“Need something?” he asked, casually, like he didn’t just exist in a way that scrambled her nervous system.

“Just—” she waved a hand vaguely, stepping around him to reach for a spoon in the drawer. “Getting out of your way.”

But the space between them was narrow, and her balance was off, and when she brushed past, her hand, traitor that it was, landed right against the bare skin of his chest.

Just a second.

Not even that.

But it was enough.

The vision slammed into her like cold water to the lungs.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Not splashed, not spilled— drawn . Carefully, precisely, in a wide circle etched into dark stone. Candlelight flickered over wet surfaces. A woman stood at the center of the circle, tall, cloaked, trembling. And a man beside her. Not Dorian. But like him. Same eyes. Same presence.

The woman held out her hand.

“ I won’t let him go ,” she whispered, voice breaking. “ Not again .”

The man stepped forward, no hesitation. Only grief. And then a scream.

It echoed across the memory, splitting through Autumn’s mind like lightning in dry air.

She ripped her hand back from Dorian’s chest and stumbled, gasping, grabbing the counter to stay upright.

“Autumn!” Dorian dropped the kettle, reaching for her. “Hey—what just happened?”

She shook her head, heart slamming. Her legs were shaking. The room spun.

He touched her elbow, steadying her with one warm hand. “Autumn, talk to me.”

She looked up, meeting his eyes. Still golden. Still warm. Still his . But that wasn’t what haunted her.

It was the man in the vision. Because he looked too much like Dorian not to be connected .

“I saw them,” she whispered. “The ritual. The woman… she didn’t want to let go. She wanted to keep someone.”

“Was she hurting him?”

“No.” Her voice was faint. “She was trying to save him. But the magic—it twisted. It cost too much.”

Dorian’s brows furrowed. “Do you think it’s Evelyn?”

Autumn nodded slowly. “And the man… he looked like you. Not just similar . You felt like him.”

His face went still. The only movement was the muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Maybe this spirit’s not just haunting the house,” she said. “Maybe it’s tied to your family.”

He looked down, like he could see the ghost of the vision still etched across his chest.

“You said Alaric was involved in blood rituals,” she added, stepping back just slightly to give herself space.

“I didn’t think they worked,” he said. “Or that he went through with any of them.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Something went very wrong. And I think… I think she’s been waiting ever since.”

“For who?”

“For you , Dorian.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he walked slowly to the sink, gripping the edge with both hands. His back muscles rippled with the tension, and even now—after everything—Autumn’s eyes followed the lines of him like gravity.

“You okay?” she asked.

“No.” His voice was rough. “But I will be. If you keep telling me the truth.”

“I always tell the truth,” she said.

He turned, finally, and the weight in his gaze was heavier than anything that had come before.

“I know. That’s why I keep falling for you.”

Autumn flinched, just a little.

Not from fear. But from knowing.

And Dorian, he didn’t push. He didn’t press. He just bent, picked up the kettle, and said, “Still want that tea?”

She stared at him.

At the man who wasn’t trying to fix her. Just hold the pieces steady while she figured out how to fit them together.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Tea sounds good.”

And as he turned back to the stove, humming low under his breath, she knew two things for certain:

The Hollow Man wasn’t done with them.

And as her rational side wanted to be, every other part of her that she had pushed down for years wasn’t either.