Morning arrived without asking permission.
It didn't bring sunlight or birdsong or anything remotely kind. Just a dull gray glow leaking through the curtains and a headache that felt intentional—like the house had spent the night pacing inside my skull.
I stayed still, staring at the ceiling.
Breathing.
Listening.
The house was quieter than before. Not peaceful—just alert. Like it was pretending to sleep because it knew I was awake.
"That's not ominous at all," I muttered.
My voice sounded wrong in the room. Too loud. Like I'd interrupted something private.
Slowly, I sat up, bracing for the memories to crash back in full force. They didn't. Instead, there was only a lingering ache behind my eyes and a faint warmth on my wrist—right where Lucien had held me the night before.
I looked down.
Nothing.
Still… my skin remembered.
That bothered me more than it should have.
I swung my legs out of bed and stood. The floor was cold, grounding, real. I crossed to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
The grounds stretched below—dark soil, twisted trees, mist clinging low like it hadn't realized morning had arrived. Everything looked caught in a half-awake state.
Including me.
"You really did this," I told my reflection in the glass. "You came back."
The girl staring back looked older than I felt. Shadows under her eyes. Jaw set too tight. Someone who'd mastered leaving before things burned—but never learned how to stop the fire from following.
I changed clothes, splashed water on my face, and told myself I was fine at least five times.
On the sixth, I almost believed it.
Almost.
The hallway outside my room was empty.
That should've been comforting. It wasn't.
My footsteps echoed as I walked, the sound stretching too far in the silence. The portraits watched me again, but their expressions had shifted—less judgment, more curiosity.
I hated that.
"Don't start," I muttered, pointing at a particularly smug ancestor. "I'm not in the mood."
The stairs creaked beneath my feet, each step announcing me like the house wanted witnesses. By the time I reached the bottom, I felt exposed in a way I couldn't explain.
Then I smelled coffee.
I stopped.
Coffee meant normal. Normal meant reality. Reality meant last night hadn't been a hallucination.
"Of course," I sighed. "Coffee in the haunted mansion. Why not."
The kitchen was tucked away from the main hall, warmer than the rest of the house. Light filtered in through tall windows—muted, but present. The counters were dark stone, spotless, like they'd been waiting.
Lucien stood at the stove.
Sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly undone. Mug in hand.
He looked… human.
That was new.
He turned as if he'd sensed me—because of course he had—and something softened in his expression before he could stop it.
"You're awake," he said.
"Wow," I replied. "Top-tier observation skills."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Did you sleep?"
I hesitated. "Somewhere between dreaming and… whatever last night was."
He nodded like that answer meant something specific. "That's better than nothing."
I crossed my arms. "You didn't leave."
"No."
"Didn't feel the need to dramatically announce your presence this time?"
"I didn't want to wake you."
That landed differently than he probably meant it to.
I looked away first.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
That unsettled me more than if it had been.
Lucien set a mug on the counter and slid it toward me. "You drink it black. No sugar."
I froze.
Slowly, I looked at him. "I do."
"I know."
"Because…?"
"Because you always have."
My fingers tightened around the counter. "You keep saying things like that."
"I know."
"And you keep not explaining."
"Also true."
I picked up the mug just to give my hands something to do. The warmth seeped into my palms, steadying me.
"You don't get to drip-feed me my own life and expect me to be okay with it," I said.
"I'm not expecting you to be okay," Lucien replied quietly. "I'm expecting you to survive."
I took a sip. The coffee was good. Annoyingly so.
"Try harder," I muttered.
He watched me over the rim of his mug—not intensely, not like before—but attentively. Like he was tracking my reactions. Like he cared whether I flinched.
That scared me more than the house ever could.
"Why now?" I asked suddenly. "Why am I remembering things now?"
"The house is weakening," he said. "And strengthening."
I blinked. "That's not how words work."
He exhaled. "It's been dormant. Waiting. You leaving stalled it. You coming back woke it."
"Because of my blood," I said flatly.
"Yes."
"And you?"
His gaze didn't waver. "I was bound to it long before you were born."
It wasn't a full answer.
But it was honest.
Something thudded in the walls—subtle, distant. I tensed instinctively.
Lucien noticed.
"You feel it," he said.
"I don't want to."
"That won't stop it."
I set the mug down. "Then teach me."
His brows knit together. "Teach you what?"
"How to feel it without losing myself," I said. "How to survive this place without becoming part of it."
He studied me for a long moment.
Then he nodded. "Alright."
"Alright?"
"We start small," he said. "Connection without surrender."
"That sounds dangerously poetic."
"It's also dangerous."
He gestured toward the doorway. "Walk with me."
The house reacted instantly, like it approved.
We moved through the corridors side by side—not touching, but close enough that I was constantly aware of him. His pace. His presence. The way he adjusted when I slowed.
"You're doing it again," I said.
"Doing what?"
"Matching me."
He didn't deny it.
We stopped in a narrow hallway where the walls felt closer than they should have been. The air was heavier here—thick with something old and restless.
Lucien turned to face me. "This is where it usually starts."
"Love that you're telling me now," I said.
"Focus," he said gently. "On your breath. On your feet on the floor."
I did.
The house shifted.
Not violently. Just enough.
A wave of sensation rolled through me—memories brushing the edges of my mind without breaking in. A child's laughter. My own voice. His—younger, less controlled.
My knees buckled.
Lucien caught me instantly.
This time, neither of us pretended it was an accident.
His hands were steady, anchoring. His forehead rested briefly against mine—just for a second.
"Stay here," he murmured. "With me."
I nodded, breath trembling.
The house quieted.
When he pulled back, his hands lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
We both noticed.
We both said nothing.
"That," he said softly, "is the space between you and it. Learn to stand there."
"And you?" I asked. "Where do you stand?"
His eyes darkened. "Closer than I should."
My heart did something deeply inconvenient.
"Lucien," I said carefully, "whatever we were—"
"We're not that anymore," he cut in quickly.
"But we're not nothing either," I finished.
Silence.
The house creaked, almost amused.
Lucien stepped back, creating distance—even though every instinct in me resisted.
"You should eat," he said. "And rest. Tonight will be harder."
I swallowed. "You'll be there."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he said. "Always."
I watched him walk away, shadows curling around him like they missed him when he wasn't there.
And for the first time since returning, the truth settled in my chest—heavy and undeniable.
The house wasn't the only thing that had been waiting for me.
Author's Note:
That last line though… what do YOU think has been waiting for her all these years?🌚