Page 30

DORIAN

D orian had never minded quiet.

As a forest ranger, he’d once spent entire weeks without hearing anything louder than a deer’s hooves against fallen pine needles. Silence was sacred then—clean, useful. But the quiet in Briar Hollow this morning was the kind that got into your bones and made you ache .

The kind that reminded you something was missing.

He moved through the inn like he always did, coffee in one hand, to-do list in his back pocket, but the rhythm felt off. Like trying to dance to a song that used to mean something.

The library lights hadn’t turned themselves on this morning. The fireplace had stayed cold despite the damp creeping in through the floorboards. Even the ghosts, usually fond of creaking floorboards and curtain-fluttering dramatics, had gone still.

Maybe they felt it too.

He started with the kitchen, stacking dishes and wiping down countertops like that could scrub out the hollow space in his chest. Every time he turned a corner, his eyes reached for her without permission. Every time a floorboard creaked, his body braced.

But she didn’t come down the stairs.

Didn’t poke her head in with a dry joke.

Didn’t refill her tea mug with that sleepy scowl she always wore for the first hour of the day.

She was gone.

And he hadn’t stopped her.

He couldn’t decide if that made him noble, or just gutless.

He told himself it was the right thing to do. Let her have space. Let her run if she needed to. But the truth was, he’d stood still while everything he wanted walked out the door with nothing but a duffel bag and eyes that didn’t say goodbye.

Dorian wasn’t even sure where she was staying now.

Nico’s maybe. Or the back room at Pines & Needles.

Or even that strange spare loft above Moonshadow Apothecary Missy kept locked unless the moon was in a certain phase.

He knew she hadn’t left town as of yesterday—Nerissa had casually mentioned seeing her duck into Everglen Market, hood up, head down.

But she hadn’t come back here.

And he hadn’t found the strength to go into town just to watch her choose somewhere else.

After lunch, though calling it “lunch” was generous, given the untouched sandwich on the counter, he climbed the stairs with heavy feet and a heavier heart. He wasn’t sure why. Habit, maybe. Or maybe he just needed to feel her in the place she’d once dared to soften.

The door to her room was ajar.

He paused in the threshold, one hand resting on the frame, the other fisted loosely at his side. The room smelled like her. Not just perfume or tea, but her . A quiet mix of lavender, old paper, and something earthy and warm—like home that hadn’t been claimed yet.

It wasn’t much inside. Just the tidy chaos she always left behind. A neatly made bed. A folded flannel of his. An empty mug resting on the vanity like it had been forgotten mid-thought.

And then he saw it.

Her scarf.

It was draped over the back of the chair like she meant to grab it on her way out and just… didn’t.

Dorian stepped forward slowly. Reached for it before he could think better. The knit was soft, a little frayed at the ends, worn from years of use. Still held the shape of her shoulders.

He sat down hard in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, scarf clutched between his hands.

His jaw clenched. He didn’t cry. Not the way people expected, anyway.

There were no sobs. No broken sounds clawing their way up his throat.

But his chest ached.

Sharp and deep, like something had been ripped out without warning. His fingers curled tighter around the fabric, pressing it to his sternum, breathing her in like she was his lifeline.

He loved her and his bear was gnawing at him to go find her.

He didn’t need the words to know it. It was in the way he’d built her a garden, remembered her tea just right, given her room to run and prayed she’d find her way back.

But love didn’t always matter when fear was louder.

And she was afraid. Not just of him, of them , but of believing that something good could actually stay. Even after the evening they shared. He had hoped it had been enough, but something happened when she searched for the Hollow Man, something enough to think she didn’t deserve this happiness.

He could only wait.

“Come back,” he said quietly, the words spoken more to the empty room than anything else. “Whenever you’re ready. Just… come back.”

He didn’t expect an answer.

But somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open.

Not loudly. Not like a ghost with something to prove.

Just a gentle, steady creak like the house was listening.

Like it agreed.