My vision fractures.
It starts with a flicker—just a stutter in the corner of my eye—but then the world lurches sideways.
I blink. Once. Twice.
But it's not my world I'm seeing anymore.
I'm somewhere else.
Someone else.
The ground is cold beneath my knees, soaked through the shredded hem of a white gown that clings to my skin like a second punishment. Rain pours in thin silver sheets, drenching me, chilling me to the bone, but I can't seem to move. The weight of defeat is heavier than the storm. My breath comes in short, shaking gasps.
Then he's there.
Will.
He kneels in front of me, eyes wild with pain. His hands—bloodied, bruised—reach for the shackles chaining my wrists to the floor. The chains screech as they snap, and for a second, all I can hear is the sound of his breathing. Desperate. Breaking.
His palms cradle my face, reverent, shaking.
And then he kisses me.
Not with hunger, but with grief.
With relief.
With the kind of love that survives fire and famine and centuries.
The kiss tastes like saltwater and smoke.
I open my eyes in the vision—and it's him. Will, just as he is now, but younger somehow. Wilder. A crown of shadows at his back.
We're in a cavern, ancient and echoing. Light spills in through a jagged hole high above, cutting through the dark like a spotlight. Dust floats in the air like falling stars.
And around us—honeysuckle.
It floods the air. Sweet and intoxicating. But there are no flowers. No vines. Just the scent. Me?
Before I can reach for him, before I can speak his name, the vision crumbles.
And I'm back.
Back in my skin. Back in the hollow tree. Back in this night that feels like it's never going to end.
I'm shaking.
Heart slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape me.
A vision?
But I've never had them while awake. Never while with other people.
I swallow hard and look at Will.
He's watching me with a strange expression, like he felt something too. Like he knows.
Knows what, I don't dare ask.
And I don't dare speak the question burning on my tongue:
Who was the woman he kissed in that memory?
Was it me?
Or was it the one he's still mourning?
The one he told me about in the restaurant.
I press my lips together and shove the thoughts down.
Now isn't the time.
But gods help me… I think that vision was real.
I don't say a word about the kiss—the kind that still has my spine tingling and my lips buzzing like they've been branded by fate itself.
Instead, I punch him in the gut.
He doubles over with a choked grunt, clutching his stomach, and I clap both hands to my mouth. "Oh my God—Will! I didn't mean to hit you that hard!"
He groans dramatically.
I take a cautious step closer, reaching out to rub his back like a guilty parent. "Are you okay?"
Then I caught the glint in his eye.
That damn smirk.
Faker.
I narrow my eyes. "Seriously? I could've killed you."
"You think a girl in fuzzy socks and a grandma sweater could kill me?" he says, straightening. "Besides, you're the one sneaking out of your house to meet a strange man in the woods. That's how horror movies start, you know."
I cross my arms, trying not to notice how good he smells—like cinnamon and pine needles and winter nights wrapped in wool blankets. My traitorous lungs inhale him anyway, just to be sure.
"You're lucky I didn't bring my bat," I say, narrowing my eyes. "I almost did."
His smile sharpens. "You own a weapon?"
"Bat. Aluminum. Pink grip," I say, poking his chest with one finger. "And don't underestimate a girl with unresolved trauma and excellent aim."
He steps in closer.
I step back instinctively until my spine presses against the tree's inner wall.
And he's there again, like gravity bends for him.
I snap, heart hammering. "How did you find out about this tree? Are you stalking me? Actually—how the hell did you get my number?"
He's quiet for a moment, then tilts his head, the corners of his mouth tugging into something soft. Almost sad.
"Those are a lot of questions from someone who kissed me like they're auditioning for Aphrodite's job."
I flush, and my fists clench at my sides.
He's still leaning casually against the tree like this is a coffee date and not some supernatural fever dream. His eyes meet mine, intense and glassy—like they've seen too much and remember all of it.
"Angelia," he says, voice barely above a whisper, "we've always been honest with each other. Ever since the beginning. And that's been… a long, long time."
My breath catches.
We only met tonight. A few hours ago. And yet…
Something inside me stirs. Some flicker of recognition beneath the surface of my skin. But I shove it down.
"You're insane," I mutter. "Or you're playing a really weird game."
His arms rise slowly, palms pressing to the tree on either side of my head. I'm trapped—but not afraid.
Not even close.
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, his voice low and aching with something I can't name. "As kinky as this is—watching you pretend not to know me—I'm tired of the game. It hurts. I don't understand why you're still pretending, when it's just us here. No one to impress. No reason to lie."
I don't move.
Because part of me—some reckless, ancient shard—wants to believe him.
Wants to remember whatever it is he swears we had.
But I don't.
I can't.
So I whisper, "I don't remember you."
He leans his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. "Then I'll remind you."
I suddenly realize I haven't breathed in far too long. My lungs protest as I finally inhale—and his scent hits me all at once. Woodsmoke and spice. Rain-soaked earth. Something not of this world.
And I still can't form a coherent sentence.
"Are you on drugs?" I blurt. "Because, seriously—what are you even talking about?"
Will pushes off the tree with infuriating ease, as if we're just having a casual chat about the weather and not unraveling the fabric of reality. His voice drops to a dreamy, theatrical register—mocking and seductive all at once.
"Very well," he says, lifting a finger like he's about to give some divine proclamation. "I suppose I should tell you, Angelia… this is not the first time we've met. I'm from another time, another place. And I came here to rescue you from this god-awful place."
I blink. Once. Twice.
Then squint at him, tilting my head like maybe if I look at him sideways, it'll start to make sense. "Wait. What?"
My expression must be doing something—something mean, probably, because he doesn't say another word. Just watches me, searching, like my glare holds the answer to his entire existence.
"I give up," I mutter, throwing my hands in the air. "We met earlier tonight, Will. My memory's not that bad. Is this some kind of drama club performance piece? Is Shelby in on this? Are there cameras?"
His entire face shifts.
It happens fast—too fast—but I catch it. Panic. Pain. Something ancient flickering behind those eyes.
"Angelia—"
I hold up a hand to cut him off. "Okay, stop calling me that. It's Angela. Or Ang. Just... not Angelia."
But he barrels forward anyway, ignoring me completely.
"Why are you pretending we don't know each other?" In a rough voice, he says something I can't identify. "It's taken me a century to find you. A century, Angelia. And all this time you were here—hidden so deeply I couldn't even sense you. Do you know what that did to me?"
My mouth goes dry.
"I've missed you with every part of my soul," he goes on, "and you look at me like I'm a stranger. Like I'm a story you've never heard before. And then I learn…" His jaw tightens. "Then I learn you've been with someone else while I was searching for you?"
I blink, stunned. "We... what?"
"We took a vow," he snaps, the pain cracking through his fury. "You vowed we'd always find our way back to each other. No matter the time. No matter the distance. And now you're acting like that vow never happened."
My mouth is open. I think I'm breathing. I'm not sure.
He stares at me—burning, breaking, hoping—and all I can do is stare back like I've wandered into the middle of some cosmic joke.
Will's expression shifts again. The fury gives way to something worse: heartbreak.
"Oh gods," he breathes, voice unraveling. "You don't remember."
He takes a slow step forward, like I might shatter if he moves too fast. His hands rise—hesitant—and then cup my face gently. Reverently.
His thumbs trace my cheekbones like they're sacred.
"By Zeus…" he whispers, his forehead leaning toward mine. "My love... what happened to you?"