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RYDER

T he moon’s high and the air’s thick with lake mist and regret.

She’s out there on the dock again. Same as last night. Legs dangling over the edge, arms looped around her knees like she’s holding herself together with sheer willpower.

I should walk away.

Should let her have space.

But I can’t. Not anymore.

The distance isn’t helping. It’s killing me.

And the truth is, I’ve already chosen her. I just haven’t told her yet.

So I walk the length of the dock, each step slower than the last. My boots are silent on the worn wood. I stop when I’m close enough to see the glint of the lake reflected in her eyes.

She doesn’t turn.

“I thought maybe you’d keep avoiding me another week or two,” she says, her voice light, but tired.

“I was wrong,” I say.

That gets her attention.

She glances up at me. “About what?”

“About thinking I could keep you out.”

The silence stretches. She studies my face like she’s looking for the cracks.

“You think saying that’s gonna magically undo the way you shut me out after we”

“It’s not about undoing,” I cut in. “It’s about starting. Right. This time.”

I sit beside her. The moonlight makes her look unreal. Like something summoned from salt and starlight.

Her voice drops. “Why now?”

“Because I can’t do this halfway anymore,” I say. “Not with you. Not with what’s coming.”

She stiffens. “What is coming?”

I pause. Look out over the lake.

The water’s too calm. Too quiet. Like it’s listening.

“It’s moving again,” I say. “The rift. It’s close.”

“How close?”

“Close enough I can feel it in my spine. The deep’s turning over. It’s breathing up.”

She exhales slowly. “And you still want me near you, even with that?”

“I want you because of that,” I say, voice steady. “Because I’ve never had someone look straight into the storm and not flinch.”

She watches me for a long time.

Then, quieter than I’ve ever heard her: “Ryder… I’m scared.”

I nod. “Me too.”

I lean in.

Her lips meet mine halfway.

And everything else, lake, sky, past falls away.

It’s not a perfect kiss.

It’s better.

It’s real. Raw. Us.

When we break, I rest my forehead against hers.

“No more fear,” I whisper. “No more distance.”

She nods. “Okay.”

We sit like that for a long time, wrapped in silence and each other.

But underneath it all, I feel it again.

The rumble.

Faint. Deep.

The rift’s not just coming.

It’s awake.

The warmth of her lips still lingers, but the air around us shifts.

It’s subtle, at first. A strange pressure in the back of my skull. A low hum rising through the soles of my feet.

Then the lake stirs.

Not visibly.

But deeply.

Like something rolling over in sleep. Something ancient. And pissed.

I go still.

“Ryder?” Callie’s voice is soft but sharp. “What is it?”

I lower my head, eyes locked on the black water.

“It’s the rift,” I murmur. “It’s not just pulsing anymore. It’s pulling. ”

She sits up straighter. “How bad?”

“Bad enough I can feel it in my chest. Like it’s dragging the tide inward.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then: “What does that mean?”

“That it’s waking. It’s… opening. For real this time.”

Her hand finds mine.

Warm. Solid.

Real.

“Then we face it together,” she says. “Whatever it means.”

I shake my head. “Callie”

She grips tighter. “No. No more ‘protecting me’ by shutting me out. No more distance. You said it yourself. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. ”

I look at her.

Really look.

And I see it not just bravery, but choice.

She chose me.

And I don’t deserve that. But gods, I want to try.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Together.”

The rift’s waking.

And we’ll be there side by side when it rises.

We don’t go back right away.

Not after that.

Instead, we sit at the end of the dock, toes dipping into the lake, the soft glow of the float rings bobbing around us like stars caught in water.

She leans her head on my shoulder.

I don’t flinch.

I don’t overthink.

I just let it happen.

The weight of her warm and present settles something in me I didn’t realize was still screaming.

She hums a tune I don’t recognize. Soft and low, like maybe she’s only half-aware she’s doing it.

I glance down at her. “What is that?”

She shrugs. “Old lullaby. My mom used to sing it when I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s nice.”

She smiles. “Don’t act so surprised, saltwater stoic. I’ve got layers.”

“I know,” I say, and I mean it.

She shifts, angling toward me. “So do you.”

I raise a brow. “Yeah?”

“Oh, for sure.” She taps my chest. “Grumpy layer, heroic layer, weirdly hot lake-beast layer, and somewhere under all that, big softy.”

“I am not a big softy.”

“You totally are,” she laughs. “You just hide it under all that brooding.”

I look at her, at the curve of her grin, the way moonlight catches in her hair like fireflies frozen midflight.

I brush a loose curl from her cheek.

She stills.

Then leans into the touch.

And I realize I’m not afraid right now.

Not of her.

Not of the lake.

Not even of myself.

I lean in again, slower this time. Like we’re not rushing toward anything, just letting the gravity between us do what it’s always wanted to.

When I kiss her, it’s different than before.

Not urgent.

Not desperate.

Just ours.

Her hand finds the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair like she’s memorizing the way I feel.

And I let her.

When we pull apart, we don’t say anything right away.

We just breathe.

Together.

She says, “Do you ever wonder if this is what peace feels like?”

I nod. “And I wonder how long we get to keep it.”

She looks out at the lake. “However long it is, I want it with you.”

And gods help me, I want it too.

So I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her closer.

And for one long, moonlit stretch of night, we don’t talk about monsters or magic or rifts trying to eat the world.

We just exist.

Together.

Exactly as we are.