THE WILLOW TREE had became our safe zone the past few… I don't know. It wasn't something we ever said out loud, but it was there in the way Riven always found his way to it, and in the way I always ended up following. It stood like a quiet watcher by the river, with its branches dipping low as if to keep our words hidden from the world. That place had seen every version of me and somehow, Riven never flinched. He just sat there, patient, like the world slowed down for him.
Sometimes, we didn't even talk. Sometimes, it was just the wind, the soft creak of branches, the gentle scrape of his boots on the grass as Hunter lay sprawled beside us. But there were other moments like the louder ones. Unexpectedly human ones. Like the day he decided to "surprise" me.
"Close your eyes," he'd said, standing in front of me with that mischievous glint I was beginning to recognize.
"Why?"
"Just—trust me, Whit."
I remember groaning, folding my arms. "The last time someone told me to trust them, I ended up dodging bullets."
He laughed. "You won't this time."
Against my better judgment, I let him cover my eyes with his hands. They were warm, calloused from the gun he carried, but gentle. He then guided me forward, with his voice low beside my ear. "Careful—one step, now another. Don't peek."
"Riven, if you make me trip on a root—"
"You won't."
Then his hands slipped away. "Alright. Look."
I opened my eyes. And there, right in front of me, was the willow's trunk—carved with uneven lines. My name. Just my name.
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Figured if we ever had to leave, you'd have something that stayed."
For a second, I couldn't speak. Not because of the gesture itself, but because of what it meant. For someone like him—someone who lived half in shadow and half in exile—to mark something as permanent…
"Blackcap," I whispered, trying to sound casual, but my voice betrayed me. "That's… actually kind of sweet."
He smirked. "Kind of?"
I shoved him lightly. "Fine. Very sweet. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," he said, grinning.
And yet, moments like those were balanced by pure chaos. I mean, one day I accidentally caught him half-naked. I had walked in on him changing after a rainstorm, thinking he'd gone out with Hunter again. The towel slipped off his shoulders, and I froze mid-step, my mind blanking at the sight of bare skin and muscle.
He turned, equally startled. "Whit!"
"I—oh my God, sorry!" I blurted, spinning around so fast I nearly tripped over Hunter.
There was a long, mortifying pause. Then his laughter—low, unrestrained, full. "Didn't think I'd ever see you blush, Whitlock."
"What?!"
"You're blushing."
"Shut up!"
I heard him still laughing as I threw a pillow at him without turning back. Later that day, when I could finally look him in the eye again, he was still smirking. "You could've just asked if you wanted to see, you know."
"Blackcap!"
He dodged the second pillow. It was infuriating—and disarming—how easily he could make me forget the weight of everything else. When I was with him, my worries felt far away.
Oh, I almost forgot the time I was cleaning my room—well, half of it. The other half belonged to him now, scattered with his old backpack, his boots, and Hunter's blanket and bowl. It was strange how natural it had become. I so hate scattered objects, and as I was dusting the shelf, something slipped between the pages of a book—a photograph. A baby, pudgy and laughing, with eyes unmistakably Riven's. That Asian eyes of his.
"Blackcap!" I called, holding it up like evidence.
He looked up from where he was fixing one of his gun straps. "What?"
"Is this you?" I tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway. "You were adorable. What happened?"
He squinted, pretending to be offended. "Give me that."
"Not a chance." I dodged as he lunged for it. "Look at those cheeks! You look like you could've been in a diaper commercial."
"Whitlock."
His tone was half-warning, half-laugh. He grabbed for the photo again, and I ducked under his arm, cackling. Hunter barked once, tail wagging, as if cheering for the argument.
"Alright, alright!" I gasped between laughs, finally handing it back. "You're still cute, okay? Just… less chubby."
He blinked at me, surprised—and then smiled. "You think I'm cute, huh?"
"I said still cute. Past tense doesn't count."
"Sure," he teased, slipping the photo into his pocket. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
I rolled my eyes, but my heart wasn't cooperating. It beat too fast, too warm.
And that warmth lingered even after he'd gone quiet again, even when the laughter faded and all that was left was the soft sound of Hunter's breathing and the evening wind pressing against the glass.
Sometimes I wondered if I was making a mistake—letting myself grow too close and too comfortable. The world we lived in didn't make room for softness. But every time Riven smiled that half-tired, half-stubborn smile, I found myself choosing it anyway. Also, over time, even Ryan began to ease. It wasn't immediate. I mean, he still watched Riven with the wary gaze of someone used to expecting betrayal—but something in him started to soften. Maybe it was the way Riven never once giving Ryan reason to doubt.
I'd catch glimpses of them talking in the courtyard sometimes. Ryan, arms crossed, asking about Riven's old work in the army. Riven, replying with clipped words at first, then slowly opening up.
One afternoon, I overheard Ryan say, "You've got a good head on your shoulders. We could use more of that here."
And Riven, without hesitation, replied, "Just trying to make myself useful, sir."
The word "sir" caught me off guard when I heard it. It wasn't mockery or formality.
Later that night, the Headmaster caught me in the hall. "He's… not what I expected, Alice," he admitted quietly, almost like he was saying it to himself.
I smiled. "He never is."
Sebastian, on the other hand, refused Ryan's offer to stay in the home. "I can't," he'd said simply one evening, perched on the window's edge, the wind rustling through his feathers. "The sky's mine. I can't trade that for walls, you know."
And I respected it. "Yeah," I told him later. "Freedom's all you ever had. You can't cage that."
But a part of me was saddened. "Still, it feels like he belongs here, doesn't it?"
Riven smiled faintly. "Maybe belonging doesn't need a roof."
That night, I found myself staring out the same window Sebastian had flown from. Riven was already asleep, and Hunter curled at his feet. The room felt small, but full. I thought about how much had changed since the day I first met him—how the silence between us had gone from uncomfortable to necessary, how the willow tree had gone from being just a landmark to being a home. And I wondered, as I watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, what would happen when the world outside finally found us again. Because it always did.
But for that night, I let myself forget. I let myself believe that maybe peace—however fragile, however temporary—could still exist in small, stolen spaces like this.
When Riven woke up the next day, he found me by the willow tree again, holding two mugs of coffee that were probably more burnt than brewed. He handed one to me, grinning sheepishly.
"Don't look at me like that," he said. "I tried."
I took a sip. "It's awful."
He laughed, leaning back on the grass. "Told you. You can't trust me with anything that isn't a weapon."
"Well, at least you're self-aware," I said, smiling into my mug.
He tilted his head toward the sky, eyes distant. "You know," he said softly, "I used to think peace was something you had to earn. That it only came after the fight. But maybe it's the other way around. Maybe you have to find it first. Like to even have something worth fighting for."
His words settled between us like sunlight through the canopy of the leaves. And for once, I didn't need to answer. I just sat there, beneath the willow tree, beside the boy who always teased me. Because even if the world fell apart tomorrow, this—right here—felt like something worth remembering.
***
Seven days have gone by since we took a photo in the Willowmere house. Sunlight dripped through the willow tree's leaves like spilled honey, dappling the grass and painting Riven's face in broken light. He sat with his knees drawn up, looking like someone who didn't quite belong anywhere—and yet, somehow, fit perfectly there.
The air smelled faintly of river water and damp earth. It was quiet except for Hunter's tail brushing the grass and the occasional whistle of the wind. I'd gotten used to these silences. They weren't awkward anymore. They'd become something comfortable, like a pause that didn't need filling. Then, out of nowhere, he broke it.
"So," Riven said. "What do you think of me?"
I blinked. "What?"
He smiled like he already knew I'd say that. "You heard me, Whit."
"Why are you asking?" I shot back, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugged, pretending to pick at a blade of grass. "Just curious. Figured I've earned an opinion by now."
I squinted at him. "You want the truth or the nice version?"
"The truth," he said immediately, which was his first mistake.
I leaned back on my elbows. "Fine."
"So?"
"You're annoying."
He tilted his head, mock-offended. "Annoying?"
"Constantly. You talk too much, you tease too much, and you never take anything seriously."
He chuckled, low and rough. "That's harsh, Whit."
"You asked."
He gave a little nod, pretending to take it in stride, but I caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Alright," he said after a beat. "Annoying. Got it. But is that all?"
I hesitated, then sighed. "You're also kind, and gentle, and sweet at times," I admitted. "You try to hide it, but you are."
He looked at me then, really looked, his eyes searching my face like he was trying to read between the words. "Kind and annoying," he repeated, smirking. "Guess I can live with that."
"Good," I said. "Because that's all you're getting."
He leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees, smile still tugging at his mouth. "My turn."
I groaned. "Oh no."
"Oh yes." He pointed at me. "What do I think of you, Whit?"
"I'm terrified to know," I muttered.
He grinned. "You're also annoying."
I scoffed. "Wow. How original."
"But," he continued, leaning in, "you're annoyingly beautiful."
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. My fist reacted before my brain did—and I punched his shoulder. Not hard, but enough to make him laugh.
"Don't say stuff like that!" I said, cheeks warming.
"Why not?" he teased, rubbing the spot I'd hit. "It's true."
"Because it's cheesy."
He laughed harder. "You're blushing."
"I'm not!"
"Are too."
"Riven, I swear—"
"Okay, okay!" He held his hands up in surrender, still grinning like a fool. "No more flirting. For now."
I glared at him, but it didn't last long. His laughter was contagious. It had that kind of warmth that made it impossible to stay mad at him for more than a second. Hunter barked once, almost as if agreeing with him, and we both broke into quiet laughter again.
When the laughter faded, the air between us shifted. I looked at him, trying to piece together the mess of contradictions that made up the dude Riven is—loud and gentle, reckless and careful, guarded but always there.
Sometimes, I wondered how someone who had seen so much loss could still smile like that.
I caught myself staring too long and quickly looked away, trying to ground my thoughts in something else—anything else.
And then I thought of Harriet. Her recovery had been slow but steady. The dark circles under her eyes had faded, though her steps were still careful. Dwight had been by her side every day. It was strange—sweet, even—to see them like that. He'd always been impatient, but with her, he was gentle. He'd bring her tea, read to her while she rested. Sometimes, when they thought no one was looking, their hands would find each other.
Sometimes, Morgan trailed behind them like their shadow, with his little sketchbook tucked under his arm. Harriet had taken to teaching him how to draw. The three of them had become something that looked almost like family. For once, it felt like we were all healing, in small, quiet ways.
When I was too consumed with my thoughts, Riven had gone quiet again, staring out at the water.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual. "Can I tell you something?"
I nodded.
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the horizon before returning to me. "I've never told anyone this before. Not even Hunter."
Hunter huffed at the sound of his name, but Riven ignored him.
"For as long as I can remember," he began, "I've felt like I was standing outside a window—watching other people live. I'd move from one place to another, do what I had to do to survive, but it never felt like… living. It was just getting by. I thought that was just how it was meant to be," he continued. "People like me don't get homes. We get hiding places. We don't get families—we get teams that fall apart. And when they're gone, you move on, because that's the only way to keep breathing."
He laughed under his breath, but it was hollow. "But here…"
He paused, swallowing hard. "Here it feels different. With you, with the others—I don't know. It's like I finally stopped running."
For a moment, I didn't trust myself to speak. His voice shook—not much, just enough to betray everything he was holding in. I wanted to tell him that I understood, that I knew what it meant to live like a ghost inside your own life. But the words caught in my throat.
Instead, I said softly, "You belong here. Whether you believe it or not."
He looked at me like he didn't know what to do with that. Then, slowly, he smiled. "You really think so?"
"I know so."
Hunter barked again, tail thumping against the ground, as if sealing my words.
Riven let out a shaky laugh. "Guess that settles it, then."
Silence fell again, but it wasn't heavy. The kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket, not a cage.
The last rays of sunlight brushed across his face, catching in his eyes and turning them to gold. For a fleeting second, I saw him not as the fighter or the survivor—but just as Riven. The boy who carved my name into a tree. The one who still believed in something good, even when the world hadn't been kind.
And I realized, with a quiet kind of terror, with a fusion of denial and disgust, that I was falling for him. Not in the dramatic, sweeping way stories always told it. But in the way sunlight seeps through curtains in the morning.
I glanced away, pretending to watch the river. He didn't notice—or maybe he did, and just let me have the moment.
Eventually, he stood, brushing the dirt from his hands. "Come on, Whit. Let's head back before Ryan sends a search party."
I rolled my eyes, grateful for the shift in tone. "He wouldn't send a search party. He'd just send Dwight to nag us to death."
Riven grinned. "Worse fate."
I followed him through the tall grass with Hunter trotting between us. And for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel the need to fill the silence. By the time we reached the edge of the clearing, the stars had started to peek through the indigo sky. I caught Riven glancing at me once more, that faint smile still there.
"Hey, Whit?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitated, then said, "Thanks."
"For what?"
"For making this place feel… less empty."
I wanted to say something back, something equally honest, but all that came out was a quiet, "You're welcome."
And somehow, that was enough.
***
I had just come back from the willow tree with Riven when I found Morgan sitting cross-legged on the floor by the stairs. His sketchbook was open on his lap, a stub of charcoal staining his fingertips gray.
He looked up the moment he heard me, eyes too serious for his age. "Hey Alice," he said, holding out a page.
I crouched in front of him, brushing the hair out of his eyes before taking it.
The drawing was… darker this time. The lines were jagged, impatient. In the center of the page was a cloaked figure with outline warped and burning, falling into what looked like a pit of fire. The flames bled into the edges, turning the paper a dirty gray where his fingers had pressed too hard. My throat then went dry.
I swallowed, the paper trembling just slightly between my fingers. "You… you dreamt this?"
He nodded. "It felt hot. Like the picture was real."
I forced a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "It's just a dream, Morgan. Nothing more."
But even as I said it, I didn't believe it. Because lately, his dreams had a habit of coming true. When I looked back down, the fire in the drawing almost seemed to shift, as if it were alive and breathing. I shut the sketchbook gently and handed it back to him. "Keep it with you," I said. "Just in case."
He hesitated. "Is something bad going to happen again?"
I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to lie the way adults always do when they're trying to protect children from truths that cut too deep. But I couldn't. So instead, I knelt beside him and said softly, "We'll face whatever comes, together. That's what matters."
He nodded. When I stood, I realized my palms were damp with sweat.
Something about that picture—it felt like a warning. And for the first time, I couldn't tell if it was meant for me.
Upstairs, the sound of faint laughter caught my attention. I followed it to the long corridor near the balcony, where Harriet and Dwight were leaning against the window's edge, a mug of tea balanced between them. In that moment, my tension about Morgan's drawing began to subside.
I stopped at the corner and watched for a moment. It just feels crazy to me that a couple of months ago, Dwight was the closest thing I had to a crush. I used to look for excuses just to talk to him — to hand him papers during drills, to ask questions I already knew the answers to, anything that would make him look my way a second longer. And Harriet… I despised her. Everything about her grated on me. It was petty, I know that now. Back then, it felt like she was everything I wasn't.
But now… things feel different. Watching them together doesn't sting the way I thought it would. It's strange, really. There's no jealousy left. Maybe it's because I finally see what's real between them. Or maybe it's because my heart's already started to drift somewhere else. I guess that's how it happens.
"I keep thinking," Harriet said after a long pause, her voice barely carrying across the hall which caused me to stop from my reverie. "What if this is it? What if this is all the time I have left before it… goes away?"
Dwight frowned. "What do you mean?"
She lifted her hand, and a faint shimmer of telekinetic energy flickered between her fingers. It sputtered and vanished like a dying ember. "That."
He didn't answer right away.
"I'm not afraid of dying, Dwight," Harriet said. "I'm afraid of disappearing. Of becoming ordinary. Of losing what made me… me."
Dwight didn't try to comfort her with empty words. He didn't tell her she was overthinking or that she'd get better soon. He just stepped closer, his voice low and certain. "You're not ordinary, Harriet. Powers or not."
And then he reached for her hand. She didn't pull away. Their fingers intertwined, and they stood there like two silhouettes against the starlit window, holding on like the world outside might break if they let go.
I turned before they could notice me. It wasn't jealousy, not really. Maybe once, a long time ago, I might've felt that—but now, it was something else. Something gentler. I mean, they'd both been through so much. They deserved to find a little light.
And as I walked back toward my room, I thought about Riven. It scared me, how easily I thought of him now. How he'd become the quiet part of my day I looked forward to without even realizing it.
Maybe that's what falling felt like. Not sudden, not loud—just slow and certain, like water wearing down stone.
***
The following morning, Dr. Crowe was in the infirmary early, checking on Harriet's condition again. From what I overheard, the injection had left traces of something foreign—something none of them could identify yet. Ryan had been distant all day, pacing the corridors, muttering about new protocols and patrols.
When I found Riven outside, he was sitting on the steps with Hunter at his feet, turning a worn bullet casing between his fingers.
"You look like you're thinking too hard," I said, sitting beside him.
He gave a half-smile. "Bad habit."
"Want to talk about it?"
He shrugged. "Just the quiet. It makes my head too loud, you know?"
I knew that feeling all too well.
We sat there for a while.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, "You ever think about what comes next?"
I looked at him. "Next?"
"If this ends—if we actually win somehow. What happens after?"
I hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe peace. Maybe something close to normal. But whatever happens, maybe I want to make a home for gifted beings one day—just like what Headmaster did."
He nodded slowly, though his eyes didn't quite believe it. "You think someone like me could fit into that kind of world?"
I smiled faintly. "Someone like you?"
He looked away. "Someone who doesn't even float or do ice magics, or create force fields."
I wanted to tell him that he already did fit, that every day he proved he belonged more than he realized—but before I could speak, Hunter barked and broke the moment.
"Come on," I said, standing. "If Ryan catches us brooding, he'll add 'emotional resilience' to our training."
Riven snorted. "Wouldn't be the worst thing he's done."
"True."
We walked back toward the house, our shoulders brushing just enough for me to notice—and just enough for him to pretend he didn't.
When I got back to my room, Morgan's drawing sat on my desk. Some part of me wanted to believe it was just his imagination. But deep down, I knew better. Morgan's dreams weren't just dreams anymore. They were glimpses—windows into what was coming. And if the last one had been right, if the flames were real, then we were running out of time.
I glanced toward the window. And just as I was about to turn away, a flicker of movement caught my eye—someone standing beneath the tree. He looked up at my window, as if he knew I'd be here.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, slowly, he raised a hand in a small wave. And I realized, despite everything, he was the one thing that made all of it bearable.
And I couldn't help but whisper, "Thank you, Blackcap."