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"Thanks for making me come," I murmur.

He winks. "That’s the goal, baby."

I groan and shove his face into the dirt. He laughs against my palm, and somehow, that sound feels like survival.

Ambrose

I wake to the sound of something wet. It lands on my face with a slap—a weightless, slimy little hell-creature that sends every nerve in my body recoiling before my brain catches up.

My eyes snap open, and for one splintered heartbeat, I brace for something worse—something crawling out of the Hollow to peel me open from the inside. But no. It's worse than that.

It’s a frog.

A fat, mottled thing perched smugly between my cheekbone and temple like it belongs here. Another thump near my foot. A wet croak by my ear. The unmistakable ripple of movement against my leg.

I freeze, my breath slicing out slow and sharp, dragging my composure back piece by piece, because I already know what this is. This isn't an accident. This isn't the Hollow coming for me in my sleep.

This is Silas.

The frog shifts on my face, slick and putrid, and I swallow back the immediate urge to throw up. It hops off with a splat, and the second its cold weight is gone, I sit up—slowly, precisely.

My room is crawling with them.

Frogs on the dresser. Frogs in the curve of my discarded coat. A fucking congregation of them piled at the foot of the bed like they’re holding council over my corpse.

The stench is unbearable—muck and damp and something faintly sour that clings to the walls like rot.

My jaw ticks once.

I let the moment hang, let the weight of this stupidity settle like stones in my chest, then swing my legs over the edge of the bed and plant my feet in the swamp they've turned my room into.

When I stand, the frogs scatter. One vaults into the sleeve of my discarded shirt. Another thumps gracelessly against the wardrobe and slides down like a drunkard.

I should be furious.

And I am. A little.

But mostly—I’m impressed.

Because this is Silas’s revenge. For the shampoo. The green dye I slipped into his stupid, expensive hair like a knife slid between ribs. He took it personally.

I flinch when another frog vaults past my ankle, wet and grotesque. The hollow slap of its body on the floorboards makes my stomach churn.

I step carefully, weaving between them like I’m navigating a battlefield.

I can hear them outside—the unmistakable sound of Silas’s laughter, sharp and ragged and far too pleased with himself. But there’s another sound underneath it, something softer and worse.

.

That quiet, dangerous hum her voice drops to when she thinks no one’s listening. When she lets herself exist in the aftermath of something reckless.

I make it to the stairs, every step deliberate, peeling off the night like armor.

By the time I hit the entryway, I can already see them through the crooked window—two bodies tangled in the front yard, rolling over the damp grass like wild things.

Silas and .

Wrestling.

Fighting.

Laughing.

My stomach pulls tight, sharp and involuntary.

’s shirt is streaked with dirt, her ridiculous pink pants clinging to her thighs, mud smeared down her cheek like war paint. She’s got her knee in Silas’s back, pinning him down with a vicious grin, and he’s grinning back like this is the best day of his life.

I lean one shoulder against the doorframe, watching them like I’m cataloguing a threat.

Silas bucks hard, flipping them both over until ’s back hits the grass with a soft grunt, her arms pinned above her head. He’s too close, his weight braced over her, their laughter tangled and breathless.

It should look innocent. It doesn’t. There’s nothing innocent about the way she looks at him—like she’d let him ruin her, over and over again, and still laugh after.

My mouth curves, slow and sharp, and I push off the doorframe. I step outside, the cold night air wrapping around me like steel, slicing clean.

They don’t notice me at first—too wrapped up in each other, in their stupid, dangerous little game. It’s Silas who spots me first.

His grin falters, eyes catching mine, and I watch him swallow whatever wild thing he was about to say. follows his gaze, her eyes finding me like she’s been expecting me all along.

I arch a brow, voice a razor’s edge. "You left your mess upstairs."

’s smile is wicked, all teeth and soft, sharp edges. "Thought you could use some company."

Silas huffs out a laugh, rolling off her and sprawling in the grass like he’s made of chaos and bad decisions. "We wanted you to wake up feeling loved."

"Is that what you’re calling it?" I cross the yard, slow, precise, until I’m standing over them.

tilts her chin up, eyes glittering like she’s daring me to join them or drag them both inside by the hair. "You’re welcome."

The moon catches in her hair, painting her wild and beautiful and half-mad, and something sharp twists in my chest. I drag my gaze over both of them, assessing, calculating, then crouch beside her until I can see the smudge of dirt on her collarbone, the quick pulse at her throat.

"You realize," I murmur, voice soft and lethal, "you’re going to pay for this."

’s grin widens, slow and dangerous. "Looking forward to it."

I meet her gaze, let the moment stretch just long enough to watch her breath hitch, then flick my attention to Silas.

"Tomorrow," I say coolly, standing again, "you’re cleaning every last one of those frogs out of my room. Alive or dead."

Silas groans dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. "They were a gift, Ambrose. You’re so ungrateful."

I glance down at one last time, let my gaze drag slow over the mess of her—mud-streaked, breathless, dangerous.

"You’re both disasters," I say quietly.

And then I turn, slipping back toward the door.

Because if I stay any longer, I’ll do something stupid. Like lie down in the mud beside her. Like let her win.

And I’m not ready for that.

There are exactly three places in this house I consider tolerable. My room. The balcony above the cathedral ruin. And the small study Orin’s claimed as his den, which somehow always smells of old parchment and dried blood.

But my room is now a swamp.

And I’m not in the mood to burn it down. Yet.

So I make my way to the second-worst option: Silas’s room. The crown jewel of aesthetic atrocity. His bed’s draped in fabrics that clash so violently they could be declared war crimes. The air smells like sugar and something faintly demonic—probably his cologne, or one of those experiments he insists isn’t illegal because we’re in a "non-jurisdictional magical plane."

Still. It’s clean.

And I’m not above revenge laced with petty pleasure.

I strip down to my undershirt and pants, toss my ruined shirt over the back of his chair, and sprawl across his bed like I fucking own it. One arm tucked behind my head. Legs crossed at the ankle. The queen-sized monstrosity creaks beneath me—too soft, too wide. Everything about it feels excessive, indulgent.

Just like him.

Perfect.

I wait. The clock ticks past two before the door creaks open.

Silas slinks in, mud-streaked and grinning to himself like he’s just won a goddamn war. He flicks the lantern on—and freezes.

He sees me. Stretched across his bed, calm as death. One brow raised. Not moving.

“Absolutely not,” he says immediately, voice low and horrified, like he’s seen a ghost. “This is sacred ground.”

I don’t blink. “It’s real estate. I’ve claimed it.”

“You can’t just—”

“I did.”

Silas throws up both hands. “This is a hate crime.”

I smile—slow, teeth barely bared. “Consider it hospitality. You ruined my room. I accept your bed as reparations.”

He paces two steps, gestures wildly. “There’s seven other options.”

I let my gaze rake over him. Mud on his thighs. Leaves in his hair. Something still wet on his sleeve. “You think I’m sleeping in a communal space? With Elias’s snoring and Riven’s nightmares?”

“Cas snores too.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with sadness incarnate either.”

Silas groans, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re like a sexy virus.”

“Flatter me more,” I say, draping one arm over my stomach, shifting just enough to make the sheets move with me. “Or get in.”

He stops mid-pace. Freezes.

“What?” he asks, voice suddenly lower. Slower.

I glance over lazily. “Get in the bed.”

Silas stares at me like I’ve dropped a live spell on the floor.

“I—no. No. I’m not—You’re not—we’re not doing that.”

I smirk. “Didn’t realize you were shy.”

“I’m not shy,” he hisses. “I’m traumatized.”

“Fitting. You named a frog after that.”

Silas narrows his eyes. “Why are you like this?”

“Because you made it a war,” I reply, voice silky, dangerous. “And I always win my wars.”

He glares. I raise a brow again, wordless. He grumbles something incoherent, yanks off his shirt, and flings it into the corner like it personally offended him. His pants follow—revealing black boxers with tiny, bright-pink skulls.

Of course.

“You say nothing,” he warns, pointing at me as he climbs in beside me, careful to keep to the far edge of the mattress like I might infect him.

I roll onto my side, elbow propped under my head, staring at him. “You’re more dramatic than I am.”

He flops onto his back, throws his arm over his eyes, and groans. “If you start snoring, I will smother you with a pillow.”

“If you get any mud on me, I’ll set your hair on fire.”

A beat of silence.

Then—quiet laughter. Small, stupid, shared.

He peeks at me from under his arm, something softer curling behind his grin. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“Of course not.”

We lie there, strange and strangely still. His breath slows. Mine follows.

And I wonder—not for the first time—how we all ended up here. In this house, in this Hollow. In a mess of bonds and magic and the kind of love that eats through the ribs.

Silas shifts under the covers. Doesn’t look at me when he murmurs, “You planning to steal my soul in your sleep?”

I don’t answer right away. Let it hang.

Then, softly—“Already did.”

He snorts, and his hand brushes mine under the blanket. Not an accident. And I let it stay. Just for tonight.

I wake to the weight of something on my chest. For a fractured second, instinct coils sharp under my ribs—the Hollow has teeth, and it knows how to bite—but it isn’t magic pressing against me.

It’s Silas.

Specifically, Silas’s arm. Splayed across me like I’m a body pillow he’s claimed. His head buried half against my shoulder, breathing deep and obnoxiously soft, like he’s never slept this well in his damn life.

The absurdity roots me there, still and staring at the cracked ceiling of his too-small, too-chaotic room, the morning light leaking gray and thin through the warped shutters.

I could move. I should.

But I don’t.

Because it’s quiet here. And because somehow, this idiot has turned last night’s retaliation into something worse—a truce. A trap. A domestic fucking nightmare.

Silas shifts, mumbling something incoherent, and when he finally blinks awake, it’s with that crooked, too-bright grin like he’s been waiting for me to open my eyes first.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice rough, pleased.

“Unfortunately.”

He stretches, shameless, all lean limbs and sleep-warm skin. “This is the best night of my life.”

“Your standards are appallingly low.”

Silas flops back, hands tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he’s plotting something I won’t like. Which, knowing him, is always.

“You know,” he says after a moment, too casual, “this could be a regular thing.”

I glance at him sideways. “No.”

He grins wider, undeterred. “Think about it. Sleepovers. Midnight frog hunts. Matching pajamas.”

“Silas.”

“I could show you my rock collection.”

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You don’t have a rock collection.”

“I do now,” he replies smugly, reaching under the bed and pulling out a battered tin box, like he’s been waiting for this moment all his life. He flips it open and gestures dramatically. “This one’s shaped like a heart. This one’s vaguely penis-shaped.”

Before I can tell him to shove his rock collection where the Hollow won’t find it, there’s a knock on the door—a half-hearted, two-tap warning that means nothing—and then it creaks open.

Elias sticks his head in, silver hair a disaster, shirt slung over one shoulder, eyes still sleep-rough. He takes one look at the scene in front of him—Silas grinning, me sprawled like a corpse in his bed—and freezes.

A beat.

Another.

Then Elias’s mouth curves into a slow, wicked smile.

“Oh,” he drawls. “Oh, this is my new favorite thing.”

Silas brightens like the damn sun. “Elias! You’re just in time. We’re starting a club.”

Elias raises a brow. “A club.”

“Ambrose slept in my bed,” Silas announces, voice too loud, too triumphant. “It’s canon now. You want in?”

I stare at the ceiling, because if I look at Elias right now, I might kill him.

Elias doesn’t miss a beat. He saunters in, flops dramatically onto the edge of the bed like he owns the place. “If you’re offering, I’ve always wanted to be sandwiched between two emotionally repressed disasters.”

“See?” Silas grins. “He gets it.”

I glance at Elias, voice dry. “If you get mud on me, I’ll kill you.”

He snorts. “What, no pillow talk first?”

Silas kicks at him under the blanket. “Shut up and get cozy.”

Elias slouches back, folding his arms behind his head, grinning like a cat with a mouse pinned under its paw. “You know, ’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out you two had a sleepover without her.”

The mention of her name lands sharp in my chest, unwanted and inevitable.

Silas hums thoughtfully. “We should invite her next time.”

“No,” I say immediately.

Both of them turn toward me, matching grins like devils.

“Oh,” Elias murmurs, eyes flicking over me like he’s reading something in me I don’t want to be seen. “You really are the fun one.”

Silas kicks him again, harder. “She’d love this.”

“She’d ruin this,” I correct.

“She’d make it better,” Elias counters, voice softer now, and it’s the way he says it—the way he’s not looking at me but past me, like he’s thinking about how she laughs when she’s half-asleep, how she curls into people without thinking—that makes something sharp dig under my ribs.

Silas flops onto his stomach, chin on the mattress. “We’ll get her next time. Make popcorn. Burn the world.”

And the terrifying thing is—I almost say yes. Instead, I shove the blankets off, stand, stretch slow and deliberate.

“Enjoy your little club,” I say coolly. “I’ll be in the study. Where adults belong.”

As I step toward the door, I hear Silas whisper behind me, smug and too pleased.

“He’ll come back.”

I miss coffee. The thought curls sharp and bitter behind my teeth as I pad barefoot down the crooked hallway, the floorboards groaning beneath me like they're tired of holding us up.

I miss the weight of the machine humming in my kitchen back home, the hiss of steam, the dark bite of caffeine that never quite took the edge off but made the day bearable. I miss my room—mine, not this half-rotted house crumbling at the edges of a world that shouldn’t exist. I miss my motorcycle, sleek and black and real beneath me, not some illusion pieced together by Branwen’s rotten magic.

Most of all, I miss my phone. Not the thing itself—gods know I cursed it more than I used it—but what’s trapped inside it.

It's in my pocket now, useless. No power in this place. No circuits humming in the Hollow.

But the photos are still there.

I find a quiet spot on the back stairwell, the walls slanted and cracked, the shadows long and stretched thin. I slide the phone out, thumb across the glass like it’ll spark to life. The screen flickers weakly—nothing left but a faint pulse of light and the last thing I looked at before the world fell apart.

.

Half-drunk smile, loose and easy in my bed, legs tangled in sheets she threatened to strangle me with. Her mouth parted, chin tipped toward the camera like she doesn’t even know she’s being watched. One shoulder bare.

A knife beneath the softness of her. My thumb drifts over the screen, over the curve of her lips, over the place where her throat dips like a secret.

I exhale, rough, shoving the phone back into my pocket like it’s a sin I can’t afford right now.

The house is too quiet. Too still. Somewhere upstairs, Elias and Silas are probably still in bed plotting their next disaster, and the rest of the house feels like it’s holding its breath around them.

I don’t like it.

I move to the kitchen because I need something to do. Something to cut through the weight pressing in behind my ribs. The stove here is old, the kind that hisses and flickers like it’s made from bones and bad intentions. No coffee. No electricity. No fucking luxury.

So I settle for boiling water.

For tea.

Because that’s what we’ve been reduced to in this place. Tea and frog-infested rooms and crumbling floors under our feet while the Hollow keeps trying to chew us alive.

The kettle groans low over the flame, and I lean back against the chipped counter, arms folded, listening to the water bubble. The window above the sink is cracked, a sliver of light crawling in from the horizon—the village beyond us still half-asleep, the cathedral’s spires cutting jagged against the bruised sky.

A moment’s peace.

Brief.

Temporary.

And then footsteps behind me. Light. Familiar.

"Ambrose?" ’s voice, rough-edged with sleep, curls down my spine like a dangerous promise.

I glance over my shoulder.

She’s barefoot, her hair a riot around her face, one of Silas’s shirts slung over her frame like it belongs to her—which, at this point, it might as well. Her eyes narrow when she sees me at the stove.

"Didn’t peg you for a tea man," she murmurs, voice low, slicing right through me.

I drag my gaze over her, slow. Deliberate. "Didn’t peg you for the type to frog-bomb someone’s bed, and yet."

She grins lazily, stepping further into the kitchen like she owns the ground beneath her feet. Like she owns me.

The kettle wails sharply, shrill and unforgiving. I turn back, kill the flame, pour the water over the bitter leaves waiting in the chipped mug.

"You can’t sleep?" she asks behind me.

Her voice is softer now. Too soft.

I don’t answer right away. Watch the steam curl up from the mug like it wants to crawl inside my mouth and burn me from the inside out.

"Didn’t want to," I say finally.

A beat of silence. Then—

"I miss coffee too," she says, quiet.

It’s not about the coffee.

We both know it.

Her footsteps scrape against the floor, and I glance back just as she settles herself across from me, leaning against the other counter, studying me like I’m something she’s decided to dissect.

"You miss more than that," she says. Not a question.

I don’t give her the satisfaction of answering.

But my eyes flick to my pocket.

And her mouth curves, slow and dangerous. Like she knows.