The curtains parted for a sliver of dawn, piercing and assertive, jolting my senses awake. For a breathless moment, I floated between consciousness and confusion, unsure of my surroundings.
The weight of Tristan's arm around my waist. The steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. The scent of him—warm, clean, something faintly woodsy—still clinging to my pillow.
It was safe.
But my heart was already picking up speed, a slow creep into panic that I couldn't explain. Not at first.
Then it hit me.
My parents. Shit.
I jolted upright, breath snagging in my throat. The clock on my nightstand blinked 6:32 AM.
Tristan stirred, blinking slowly as he propped himself up on one elbow.
His hair was tousled, and his voice was thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"
I shook my head, already climbing out of bed. "You have to go."
He blinked again, confused. "Did I—did something happen?"
"No," I whispered quickly, tugging on a hoodie. "You were perfect. I just… my parents. They can't know you were here. Not like this."
His eyes cleared a little as realization dawned. He nodded, already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Okay. Yeah. Got it."
I turned back to him, heart pounding for a different reason now. "I'm sorry. I didn't think—I just needed—"
He stood and gently caught my wrist, brushing his thumb over the inside like it might calm the nerves racing under my skin. "You don't have to explain. You needed safety. That's not something you have to apologize for."
God, he got it—every time.
I looked up at him, soft panic in my chest giving way to reluctant fondness. "We have to be quiet. I mean, really quiet."
Tristan gave me a small, crooked smile. "I'm excellent at sneaking around. I watched every Bond movie twice."
I rolled my eyes, biting back a laugh as I tiptoed toward the door.
He followed, barefoot and silent, and for a moment the ridiculousness of it all nearly made me laugh. Here was this beautiful guy I barely knew, sneaking out of my house like a teenage cliché. But it wasn't about sex or rebellion. It was about safety. Yet beneath the humor, a flicker of self-doubt surfaced, questioning if I'd made the right choices in letting him in.
Could I really trust him, or was I rushing into something I wasn't ready for?
The thought passed quickly, replaced by a resolve that felt both new and surprisingly solid.
It was about safety.
I cracked the door, listened.
Nothing yet.
We crept down the hall, past the creaky floorboard by the bathroom, around the spot where the stairwell always echoed. My mind raced with urgency, knowing that if Mom heard the stairs, everything would unravel. At the bottom, I paused by the front door, hand on the knob.
"Still think I was just someone you just met?" he whispered, teasing and warm.
I turned slightly, heart pounding in a completely different rhythm now.
"I think you're ruining my ability to keep walls up," I whispered back.
His grin was quiet. "Good."
And then he was gone, slipping into the early morning light, leaving the door barely ajar behind him.
I locked it. Pressed my back against it. And smiled into the silence.
I curled up on the couch, flipping on some mindless show like I hadn't just snuck a guy out of the house.
My heart was still thudding a little too fast, not from fear exactly—more like leftover adrenaline. Like I hadn't quite come down yet. Every time I blinked, I saw flashes of last night. The way Tristan looked in the glow of my pumpkin lights. The way his hand fit perfectly against the small of my back. The way I let him in.
Saturday mornings followed their usual script. By 7 a.m., my parents and Kari were up, synchronized like a well-rehearsed routine. My pattern, however, had shifted—now somehow set to Tristan's rhythm. But the weight of his presence lingered, twisting my thoughts through regret and reflection. He'd been in my room, in my bed, and now, somehow, in my head, in ways I wasn't quite ready to face. Something had shifted. I could feel it in my chest, in my throat, and in the way I didn't want to wash the scent of him off my sheets just yet.
Footsteps creaked down the hall.
My mom came into the living room, clearly drawn by the sound of the TV.
She offered a quick "Morning" as she passed, heading straight for the kitchen like she always did—messy bun, slippers, and the scent of sleep still clinging to her eyes.
I muttered a soft "Morning" back, trying to keep my voice level.
She didn't ask why I was up early. Didn't ask why I looked like I hadn't slept much.
Good.
Because I wasn't sure I could lie about it without smiling.
My mom disappeared into the kitchen, the familiar clink of the coffee pot starting up breaking the silence. I sank deeper into the cushions, pulling the throw blanket up over my knees like it could hide the glow still clinging to my skin.
I should've been more nervous. Should've felt guiltier. But instead… I just felt full. A little raw, maybe, but not in a bad way. Like I'd been cracked open and something soft had been let in.
A few minutes later, I heard the creak of the hallway floorboards—familiar, worn, and always a little too loud in the morning. My dad shuffled into the living room in his threadbare Star Wars pajama pants and an old college hoodie, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Morning, kiddo," he mumbled, yawning as he passed behind the couch. He gave my shoulder a lazy pat. "You're up early for a Saturday."
I shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around me. "Couldn't sleep."
He didn't press. Just offered a soft grunt of understanding before heading into the kitchen.
"I'll start breakfast," he called out, already opening cabinets like he'd done it a thousand times. "Eggs and toast sound good?"
From the kitchen, Mom laughed. "You always ask like I'll say no."
I smiled faintly to myself as the familiar rhythm of their morning routine filled the air. Everything in the house felt normal, the same rituals unfolding as they did every weekend. I glanced down, my fingers brushing against my wrist where Tristan had touched me, a lingering warmth that served as a silent reminder of last night. His presence had left an imprint, delicate but profound, and that tender memory contrasted with the quiet, predictable world around me. Despite the unchanged house, I couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability and transformation that hummed softly beneath my skin, making me feel both cherished and terrified.
Because even though the house was the same, even though my parents were being their usual, cozy selves… last night had changed something. And I didn't know how to carry that yet. Didn't know how to explain it, even to myself.
So I stayed curled on the couch, holding onto the quiet, and letting their soft morning banter fill the air like white noise.
Like maybe it was okay if the world kept spinning the same, while I quietly became someone new.
My phone on the armrest of the couch buzzed.
Group Chat: Coven of Chaos 🕷️Lizzie:Are we going to Shattered tonight or what?
Chloe:Ugh. Yes. I need to scream into a bass speaker and forget I exist.
Lizzie:So, Winter? You alive? You coming?👀
I smirked, thumbs already flying.
I'm in. I could use a little loud and unholy.
A moment later, Lizzie replied with a GIF of a dancing skeleton in fishnets.
I laughed softly to myself, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.
Even with everything weird and unspoken swirling around me… tonight might actually be okay.
My phone buzzed again. This time, my heart sped up when I saw the name.
Tristan: Made it back. Door's locked, boots off, and I think my neighbor is already judging me for smiling too much at nothing.
I bit my lip, warmth curling in my chest.
Me:I'm glad you made it back okay. Again, I'm sorry for waking you up last night.
There was a pause—just long enough to make my stomach flutter—but then:
Tristan:Winter. You never have to apologize for needing me. Ever.
I swallowed hard. The way he said things like that—so simple, so steady—it almost scared me more than anything. The fear tangled with a sense of hopeful anticipation, confusing and exhilarating at once. Because I believed him. Every word.
From the kitchen, a pan sizzled, followed by my dad's voice calling out: "Eggs are almost ready!"
I smiled, even though the nerves still sat just beneath the surface. I stared at my phone for a second, chewing the inside of my cheek before typing one more message.
Me:Hey… want to come to Shattered tonight with me and the girls?
Three dots blinked. Paused. Blinked again.
My heart did that stupid skip, like it always did when I wasn't sure if I'd said too much or not enough.
I waited—phone in hand, breath barely there..
Tristan:Yeah. I'd like that.Should I wear black to match the vibe or just let my soul do the talking?
A laugh burst out of me—quiet but real. I typed back before I could overthink it.
Black. Always black. And maybe a little eyeliner so Lizzie doesn't roast you.
Tristan: Done. I'll bring my best brooding stare, too. Might even lean against a wall like I'm in a music video.
Me: Perfect. I'll pretend not to look.
Tristan: And I'll pretend not to hope you do.
My stomach flipped. I pressed the phone to my chest for a second, suddenly too warm under the blanket.
From the kitchen, my dad called again, this time more cheerfully. "Winter! Come grab a plate before your mom eats all the toast!"
I stood slowly, texting one last message as I headed toward the kitchen.
Me: See you tonight.
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and coffee—Dad's usual attempt at breakfast. Mom moved quietly between the stove and the table, her face calm but eyes sharp, as if she were waiting for something to go wrong.
I sat at the table, careful to keep my hands folded in my lap. A second later, Kari appeared—barefoot, hair in a messy bun, and wearing a black hoodie that practically screamed Do not talk to me before 10 a.m.
She rubbed at one eye with the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt and made a beeline for the coffee pot. "Is it Saturday or hell?"
"It's both," I muttered.
Kari narrowed her eyes at me. "You're suspiciously cheerful this morning."
"I am not," I said quickly, but it came out too light, too defensive.
My dad slid a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. "You okay, Winter? You look a little tired."
I forced a small smile. "Yeah, just didn't sleep well."
Mom exchanged a look with Dad, subtle but there. I felt Kari glance up briefly, her eyes flickering with something like suspicion—or maybe just teenage boredom.
Finally, I took a deep breath. "There's something I need to tell you." My voice was barely above a whisper.
Mom's head snapped up. Dad's hand paused on his mug. Kari stopped scrolling, eyes wide.
"I left Eric," I said, the words shaking out like a fragile breath.
Silence fell—heavy, thick, like it was pressing down on all of us.
Mom blinked, searching my face. "You… what?"
"I left him," I repeated, trying to keep steady. "I can't stay there anymore. Not after everything."
Kari's mouth twitched, surprised. "Wait, seriously? You didn't tell me."
"It happened last night," I admitted. "I was scared. I still am."
Dad leaned forward, voice low but firm. "Winter, you did the right thing. We just want you to be safe."
Mom reached across the table and took my hand, squeezing gently. "You're so brave for telling us. We're here for you."
Kari shifted in her seat, a softer look on her face now. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. If you ever need anything—"
"I know," I said, the lump in my throat easing just a little. "Thank you."
The tension in the room began to loosen, replaced by something fragile but real—hope.
I looked up at them all, feeling like maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to hide anymore.
Mom and Dad both stood up at once. Mom moved first, stepping around the table to pull me into a warm, steady hug. Her arms held me like she was afraid to let go as if trying to soak in every ounce of my pain and strength.
Dad joined next, his embrace firm and protective, a silent promise that I wasn't alone anymore.
From her seat, Kari reached over and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. Her touch was gentle, almost hesitant, but full of sisterly solidarity.
For the first time in a long time, I let myself lean into them—not just their words, but their presence. Their love.
And it felt like coming home.
Mom stepped back, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. Her voice softened, trying to lift the weight in the room.
"Okay, so how was your first week of college? Any new friends?"
Her question hung in the air, a gentle reminder that life was still moving forward—small moments, fresh starts.
I blinked, then smiled faintly, grateful for the change in pace. "It was... different. It was a bit overwhelming, but I met a few people. They seem nice."
Kari nodded encouragingly from her seat, squeezing my shoulder. "That's great, Winter. You're going to do amazing."
The tension eased just a bit, like the first light breaking through after a storm.
As the conversation shifted, I caught Kari's eyes from across the table. They flickered toward the hallway—the way she always did when she knew more than she let on.
She gave me a quick, almost imperceptible glance like she'd noticed someone else in my room last night. But she said nothing.
I could tell she assumed it was Eric.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, then she looked away, pretending to focus on her breakfast.
That silence between us spoke volumes.
Later, after the dishes were cleared and the kitchen quieted, Kari caught me just as I was heading upstairs.
"Hey," she said, voice low and a little hesitant. "Can we talk?"
I nodded, heart thudding.
"I saw someone in your room last night," she said bluntly, eyes searching mine. "I thought it was Eric. Why was he here?" Her eyebrows furrowed as if trying to piece something together.
It was a question loaded with weight, the uncertainty hovering between us like a challenge.
I took a deep breath. "It wasn't, I said quietly. It was Tristan."
Her eyebrows lifted, and for a moment, she looked almost relieved. "Tristan?"
I smiled a little, the first real one all morning. "Yeah. He's… different. He actually listens. He's kind and patient. He came when I asked for help."
Kari studied me for a moment, then her expression softened. "Sounds like someone you can trust."
"It is," I said. "More than I've felt in a long time."
She nodded slowly, then gave me a small, reassuring squeeze on the arm. "I'm glad you have him."
I lingered at the doorway for a moment after Kari went back inside, her words still hanging softly in the air.
I'm glad you have him.
Me too.
Upstairs, my room still held traces of the night before—Tristan's warmth folded into the sheets, the faint scent of his cologne lingering like a whisper. I shut the door behind me and exhaled, leaning back against it for a moment before crossing to my desk.
My eyes drifted to the nightstand beside the bed, where Tristan's hoodie lay folded neatly, just like he'd set it down before I pulled him down to lie with me in bed. It looked almost out of place there—so careful, so intentional—like a silent promise he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.
I reached out and touched the soft fabric, the memory of his quiet movements last night washing over me again.
It was a small thing. But it meant everything.
A half-finished sketchbook lay open beneath the glow of my pumpkin string lights, the pencil lines faint but waiting. I sat down, tugging my hoodie sleeves over my palms, and stared at the page. The figure was barely there—a girl suspended mid-fall, hair floating like seaweed, arms outstretched like she was reaching for something just beyond the paper's edge.
Maybe I'd been drawing myself without even realizing.
I picked up my pencil, fingers finally steadying. I started darkening the lines, giving weight and shape to her limbs, letting the motion flow again. Something was grounding in it—in the scratch of graphite, the smudge of shadow, the way I could give form to something I didn't have words for yet.
After a while, I flipped open my art history textbook, trying to focus. We were in the early stuff—prehistoric cave paintings, Mesopotamian reliefs, ancient Egyptian tomb art. The kind of work made when people still believed every mark had power. That art wasn't for beauty—it was for survival, for gods, for memory.
There was something raw about it. Intentional. Like each line was a spell. A promise not to be forgotten.
I paused on an image of the Venus of Willendorf, her rounded shape carved in limestone, faceless and powerful and worshiped, maybe. Or just remembered.
A quote I'd scribbled in the margin of my notebook caught my eye:
"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see."—Edgar Degas
I traced the words with my fingertip.
Maybe that's what I was doing, too—drawing things I couldn't quite say yet and finding a way to be seen without having to explain every part of myself.
On the next page, a wall relief from a Sumerian temple showed rows of worshipers carved in profile, each one stiff and formal, wide-eyed and waiting. It made me wonder what they were waiting for, if they were afraid. If they ever wanted to break formation and feel something real.
I looked down at the girl I'd been sketching earlier in my sketchpad. I added new lines—more motion in her posture, less stillness in her eyes. Less reverence. More rebellion.
Not worship. Not waiting.
Becoming.
I pulled my laptop over, queuing up the reading for class, but my sketchbook stayed open beside me. The drawing continued to evolve—now softer. The girl no longer falling, but floating. Her expression was peaceful. Like maybe she'd finally stopped bracing for the crash.
From downstairs, I heard the faint hum of dishes being washed, the low murmur of my parents' voices. Every day life is still going on, steady and solid—my safe place to land.
And here, in the quiet, I let myself sink into it all—the newness, the weirdness, the ache and the bloom of it—and kept drawing.
This is how I found my way.
One line at a time.
The afternoon passed in soft, flickering pieces.
Between art history notes and sketching in my sketchpad, I texted Tristan on and off—little things, mostly. A meme he would like. A blurry photo of my pencil-covered fingers. He replied with one of his boots propped on his desk, captioned: Hard at work pretending to be productive.
It made me smile more than I wanted to admit.
At one point, he asked if I was still okay—if things felt heavy. I told him they did, but less so now, like my lungs were filling again.
His reply came quickly:
Good. I'll keep reminding you you're not alone.
By six-thirty, the sky outside was melting into that deep indigo that always made everything feel just a little more cinematic. Streetlights blinked on in slow succession. Somewhere down the block, someone's windchimes danced in the breeze.
I stood in front of my open closet, towel-wrapped hair still damp, half-dressed and completely indecisive. My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Lizzie: Get your hot goth on. I'm not dragging a pastel ghost to Shattered.
Chloe:My eyeliner is sharp enough to kill a man. You have 30 minutes.
I rolled my eyes, grinning.
Challenge accepted.
I tugged on the outfit I'd been saving for months but hadn't had the courage—or maybe the right reason—to wear: a black velvety mini dress with thin straps and a neckline that dipped just enough to feel daring. Over it, I threw on a harness with silver chains crisscrossing the front like armor. A few small spike studs lined the straps, catching the lamplight like tiny warnings. I paused, caught in the mirror's reflection, my eyes tracing every daring line and curve. With a deep breath, I tightened one of the harness straps and stood a little taller, meeting my own gaze with a newfound resolve, as if daring the world to see me, truly see me.
I added ripped tights and my heeled boots, the ones that made satisfying clicks against the floor when I walked. My mirror reflected someone I almost didn't recognize—still me, but louder. Bolder. Like a version of myself I'd kept tucked in the background, finally stepping forward.
My fingers trembled slightly as I lined my eyes in black, dragging the wing sharp and deliberate. A bit of glitter under my lower lashes for softness. Lipstick, dark plum. A few silver rings. A choker with a tiny spider, just enough edge to say: I'm not the same girl you thought I was.
My phone buzzed again—this time, it was Tristan.
Tristan: Getting dressed. Trying to look intimidating enough to match The Coven. Should I wear sunglasses indoors or just let the existential dread speak for itself?
Me: Skip the sunglasses. Dread is more authentic.
Tristan: On it. I'll brood from the corner like a pro.
I laughed under my breath, heart fluttering.
I grabbed my small studded cross-body bag, stuffed it with my ID, some cash, gum, and eyeliner for touch-ups. Then I turned off my bedroom light, the pumpkin string lights still softly glowing behind me, and headed downstairs, where the night was waiting.
And this time, I was ready for it.
Just as I finished touching up my eyeliner, I heard a knock on my bedroom door.
"Winter?" Dad's voice came through, soft but steady.
I opened the door to find him standing there, arms crossed loosely, eyes warm but a little tired. He gave me a once-over and smiled. "You look cool. Intimidating, even. In a good way."
I smiled faintly, brushing a hand over one of the silver chains clipped to my skirt. "Thanks."
He hesitated, then stepped forward. "I just wanted to say that I'm really proud of you."
My throat tightened. "For what?"
"For leaving Eric," he said. "I know that couldn't have been easy. But it was right. He's not a good person, Winter. And I hate that you ever had to carry that alone."
There was something heavy in his voice. Protective. Pained. Like he wished he could've pulled me out of it sooner.
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. He hugged me back without hesitation—strong, steady, like a wall I hadn't realized I'd been leaning against all day.
"Thanks, Dad," I murmured into his shoulder. "Really."
He squeezed me one more time, then pulled back, one hand resting gently on my shoulder. "You heading out now?"
"Yeah. Chloe and Lizzie are picking me up—we're going to Shattered."
He raised an eyebrow. "That place with the smoke machines and the vampire lighting?"
I snorted. "That's the one."
"Alright," he said with a chuckle. "Be careful tonight. Keep your phone on you."
"I will," I promised.
Right then, my phone buzzed in my hand—the group chat.
Lizzie:We're outside, you unholy goddess. Let's goooo.
I looked up at Dad. "That's my ride."
He nodded, stepping aside. "Go have fun. Just… don't let Chloe talk you into any wild tattoos or rooftop dares."
"No promises," I said over my shoulder, grinning as I made my way down the stairs.
At the door, I turned back and gave him a small wave. "Night, Dad."
"Night, kiddo."
The front door closed behind me with a quiet click, and cool evening air brushed across my skin. The car waited at the curb, headlights dimmed, music already thumping faintly through the closed windows. Blake sat in the driver's seat, sunglasses on despite the fading light, like the world might catch fire and he needed to be ready.
Lizzie leaned halfway out the passenger window, grinning like a maniac. "Well, if it isn't the newly single queen of chaos herself."
Chloe popped her head up from the backseat. "You look hot. Get in, loser, we're embracing emotional instability."
I laughed, my boots crunching over the driveway as I jogged to the car and slid into the back beside Chloe.
Music exploded the second the door shut—some dark synth-heavy anthem that made the whole car vibrate in time with the bass.
Blake glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "You good?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Better than I've been in a long time."
"Then let's go ruin our hearing," he said, throwing the car into drive.
As we peeled away from the curb, city lights blinking in the distance, I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message to Tristan:
Me:On my way to Shattered. See you soon?
I hit send, smiling faintly to myself as the wind whipped through the open windows and Lizzie started singing along to the chorus with her whole chest. Chloe already had lip gloss out, doing final touch-ups between bass drops. Blake drummed the steering wheel like it was a set of drums, and the night belonged to us.
And maybe, just for tonight, it did.
As we turned another corner, the bass thudded through my ribs like a second heartbeat, the rhythm syncing with the pulse of the city lights outside. It was as if the music itself was breathing new life into me, filling the spaces that had long felt empty. The sensation lingered, a tangible reminder of this moment and all that was to come.
Tristan: Already on my way. Save me a spot by the speakers—if my eardrums explode, I want it to be next to you.
I bit my lip, the smile creeping up before I could stop it.
Chloe, ever the hawk, leaned over just far enough to peek at my screen.
"Ooooh," she sing-songed, eyes wide and delighted. "Is that who I think it is?"
I locked my phone quickly, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Maybe."
Lizzie twisted around in the front seat, one arm hooked over the headrest. "What did I miss? Who's making Winter blush like that?"
Chloe beamed, not missing a beat. "Tristan texted her. He's on his way to Shattered."
Lizzie's eyes lit up. "Oh my god, he's actually showing up? What kind of rom-com did we stumble into?"
I gave them both a look, though I couldn't help the grin pulling at my lips. "Okay, fine. He stayed over last night."
The car erupted.
Chloe gasped dramatically. "You didn't tell us?!"
Lizzie practically climbed into the backseat. "Winter! You mysterious little minx."
Chloe leaned in closer, all mock-seriousness. "Wait—was it just a sleepover or are we talking full-blown 'I need to sage my room' territory?"
"Chloe!" I groaned, burying my face in my hands, but I was still smiling.
Lizzie nudged her. "Let the girl live. Besides, I told you there was something going on with those two. That chemistry was practically setting off smoke alarms."
"I didn't say you were wrong," Chloe muttered, still grinning. "I just wanted the tea confirmed."
I peeked out from behind my hands. "It wasn't like that. I just… needed someone. And he showed up. That's all."
That quieted them, just for a moment—long enough to feel the shift.
Chloe nodded, her voice softer now. "That's actually kind of perfect."
Lizzie reached back and gave my knee a quick squeeze. "Seriously. Good for you."
The moment settled between us, cozy and a little electric, just like the music thumping through the speakers. The night outside blurred past—city lights glowing, wind tangling in our hair, the kind of energy that buzzed just under the skin.
And Tristan was on his way.
Something about that made the world feel just a little less sharp.