The night came slowly, like it was stretching itself out on purpose.
Ivy lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling while the house settled around her. Every sound felt louder after Miles's warning—the distant ticking of pipes, the sigh of the wind through the eaves, the soft creak of wood shifting under its own age.
Things bloom there you don't want to wake.
She should have listened.
She told herself she would.
But the Red Garden had taken root in her mind.
When the clock downstairs chimed midnight, Ivy sat up. The house felt different now—less watched, or maybe more. The darkness pressed close, intimate, like a secret being shared.
She dressed quietly, slipping on a cardigan and shoes, and eased her door open.
The hallway was empty.
She moved through Bly like a ghost, every step careful, every breath shallow. When she reached the back door, she hesitated—heart hammering, hand on the cold handle—then pushed it open.
The night air wrapped around her immediately. Damp. Earthy. Alive.
The garden path was barely visible, but she remembered the way. Her feet seemed to know it too, carrying her forward through the overgrowth, past the hedges, into the narrow hidden trail.
And then—
The Red Garden.
It looked different at night.
The flowers were darker now, their reds deepened into something almost black, glossy with moonlight. The air was heavy with scent—sweet and rotten all at once. The stone bench loomed beneath the tree like an altar, vines curled tightly around it, as if clinging.
Ivy stepped inside.
The moment she did, the world felt quieter. Not peaceful—hushed. Like the garden was holding its breath.
She walked slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of a rose bush. The petals were cool, damp. She imagined them staining her skin.
"I shouldn't be here," she whispered.
The words felt weak.
She approached the angel statue. Up close, it was more unsettling—the broken wing jagged, the smooth eye hollowed by time. Someone had placed fresh flowers at its feet. Red ones.
Her chest tightened.
"You came anyway."
Ivy spun around.
Miles stood at the edge of the garden, half-shadow, half-moonlight. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't needed to.
"You followed me," she said, though she wasn't sure if it was accusation or relief.
"I knew you would," he replied simply.
He stepped closer, the red blooms brushing his legs as he moved. He looked different out here—sharper, darker, like the garden suited him.
"I warned you," he said.
"I didn't wake anything," Ivy answered, though she didn't know why she felt the need to defend herself.
Miles stopped a few feet away from her. "That's not always how it works."
The silence stretched. The flowers rustled though there was no wind.
"You feel it too, don't you?" he said quietly. "How this place pulls at you."
Ivy swallowed. "It feels… honest."
His lips curved slightly. "That's a dangerous word."
She glanced back at the bench. "Miss Jessel came here."
"Yes."
"And Peter Quint?"
Miles's eyes darkened, just for a moment. "He liked places where people felt too much."
Ivy's pulse jumped. "Do you?"
He considered her. "I like people who feel too much."
Another step closer.
The air between them tightened, electric. Ivy could smell his cologne again—sharp, grounding, wrong and comforting all at once.
"You read her journal," he said.
"Yes."
"What did you think?" His voice was calm, but his gaze pinned her in place.
Ivy hesitated, then spoke the truth. "I think she gave herself to someone who knew exactly how to take."
Miles smiled—not wide, not cruel. Knowing.
"She wanted to," he said. "That's what everyone forgets. Wanting can be its own kind of choice."
The words slid under her skin.
"And you?" she asked softly. "What do you want?"
For the first time, he didn't answer right away.
He reached out—not to touch her, but to lift one of the red flowers, rolling the stem between his fingers. Thorns pressed into his skin. He didn't flinch.
"I want things to stay," he said at last. "People leave. Feelings fade. But some things… if you hold them tight enough, they don't."
He looked at her then, fully.
"You don't feel like someone who fades."
Ivy's breath caught. "Miles—"
"Say it," he murmured.
"Say what?"
"That you feel it too."
The garden seemed to lean in around them, petals trembling, shadows stretching. Ivy's heart pounded so hard it hurt.
"I don't know what I feel," she said.
"That's alright," he replied. "Neither did she. Not at first."
Something moved at the edge of her vision—just a flicker, like a reflection where none should be. Ivy glanced toward the angel statue.
For a moment, she thought she saw a woman standing there. Still. Watching.
Then it was gone.
Miles followed her gaze, his expression unreadable.
"We should go back," he said gently. "Before the garden remembers you."
He turned away first.
Ivy stayed a moment longer, staring at the flowers, at the bench, at the place where love had once curdled into something darker.
Then she followed him.
As they walked back toward the house, Ivy realized something with a sudden, sinking clarity:
She hadn't gone to the Red Garden to be scared.
She had gone to feel closer to him.
And Bly, patient as ever, had noticed.