Page 80 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Eighty

Fear of Falling

The fifth night after the voice, she went back.

She told herself it was just for air.

Just to breathe.

But her hands were trembling before she even reached the door.

She stuffed the bed. Slipped through the house like a ghost.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

The garden waited—cold, silver-washed, endless.

The wall loomed ahead, wrapped in ivy, wrapped in silence.

She stood with her hand against the stone.

The cold bled into her skin.

It felt like touching a memory she didn’t deserve.

Her heart hammered so loud she thought the house would hear it.

Still, she whispered:

“Are you there?”

The words barely made it out.

A shiver more than a sound.

Nothing answered.

The night stretched on, wide and empty.

She sat down on the stone bench, pulling her knees tight to her chest .

Her breath hitched.

It felt ridiculous, sitting here, whispering to a wall like a lunatic.

She muttered under her breath, voice shaking:

“Of course you’re not there. Why would you be?”

She wiped her face, embarrassed even though no one could see her.

“It was probably nothing. Maybe I’m going insane. Hearing things.”

Her throat tightened.

Loneliness crept up her spine like frost.

“God… if I’d just answered then—”

She shook her head hard.

Felt the sting behind her eyes.

“Now I’ll never know.”

A soft laugh rose from the other side of the wall.

Not loud.

Not cruel.

Gentle.

Her whole body locked.

Shock ripped through her like lightning.

Her heart stuttered painfully in her chest.

For one terrifying, impossible second, she thought she might faint.

“I was trying not to scare you off again,” the voice said.

She surged to her feet too fast.

The world tilted.

The sky spun.

She gripped the edge of the bench, nails digging into cold stone.

It was real.

It was happening.

Someone was there.

Someone was talking back.

She opened her mouth—

Nothing came out.

Her body wasn’t cooperating.

She wanted to scream, to cry, to collapse .

Instead, somehow, she forced out a whisper:

“You’re there.”

Another laugh.

Warm. Almost shy.

“Yeah. I heard all of that.”

She covered her face with both hands, mortified.

“Great,” she mumbled through her fingers.

“No, it was sweet. You’re not insane or hearing things.”

A pause.

The air between them felt thin, breakable.

Then:

“I’m Grayson.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Her mind raced.

A thousand questions and alarms went off inside her.

Who are you really?

Is this a trap?

Are they watching me right now?

Am I stupid for standing here?

She wanted to run.

She wanted to stay.

She wanted to believe someone could be kind without wanting something back.

But the Thornwicks had beaten that belief into dust.

Her voice shook when she finally spoke:

“I… can’t tell you my name.”

The words tumbled out jagged and wrong.

Her lungs burned.

It felt like confessing a crime.

“Fair enough,” Grayson said gently.

Another pause.

Not awkward.

Not heavy.

Just quiet.

He spoke again, even softer:

“I’m working on the property next door. I’m an architect. Just here for a month. Helping a buddy out with his family’s estate. Boring stuff. Stone walls, broken chimneys, drainage nightmares. But this wall caught my eye.”

Lyric stared at the wall like it might open up and swallow her.

She gripped the bench tighter.

He kept talking, filling the silence without pressing:

“Do you live here?”

She hesitated.

Her mouth was dry.

Her fingers tightened on the bench without meaning to.

She didn’t trust herself to say anything more, but somehow—

“It’s complicated,” she whispered.

He didn’t ask for more.

He didn’t push.

Just said:

“Maybe I’ll… hear you again tomorrow. I come out here every night—watch the moon. It’s peaceful. But I would enjoy some company.”

Another pause.

“If you want.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No pressure,” he added, voice light.

Lyric didn’t answer.

But she didn’t leave, either.

She wasn’t sure if it was loneliness, desperation, or the gentleness in his voice—but something made her stay.

And for tonight, that was enough.

She hadn’t felt real kindness in so long, she didn’t know what to do with it.

It made her chest ache, caught between the hope of salvation and the fear of falling for a lie.

Hope was dangerous here, and she knew it.