LAUREN
When I open my eyes I see my mother standing over me singing “Happy Birthday” and holding a cupcake, while my dad holds one for my twin sister Lindsey. My mom gets a little carried away with birthdays. She says that we need to celebrate our births because it marks the day of an incredible soul joining the earth. Lindsey seems to enjoy celebrating her birth more than I do.
My best friend, the one I shared a womb with, is perfect in every way. She can captivate a room. We are identical twins. We both have wavy platinum-blonde hair, blue eyes which my mom says look like crystals when the light hits them. I know Lindsey doesn’t mind the hooded eyelids because it gives her more of a canvas for her eyeshadow. Her lips are heart-shaped so Lindsey always says that she will never need lip filler. We have really long eyelashes—Dad says they look like they belong somewhere near the ocean, dramatic enough to stir up tides if we blink too hard. The only thing Lindsey really complains about is the fact that we are built like a board.
Lindsey and I are the same in every way when it comes to looks with one exception—Lindsey was born with a mole on her jawline.
But even though we look the same, we couldn’t be more different.
She likes pink, I like blue, she likes glitter, I like spray paint, she’s girly, I would rather be in the mud, she’s an airhead and I’m—well—not. She is perfection in the form of a teenage girl and I’m just Lauren Turner.
Lindsey is so popular, it’s probably because she is the kindest, most generous person I have ever met. I wish I could be like her and enjoy social interactions with people but I just can’t stand idiots.
I watch my twin as she gets so excited and blows out the candle while clapping her hands and talking about how today will be the best day. I just look at my mother and say, “Thanks.”
She responds to me by saying, “Lauren, your day is going to be amazing as well.”
“Well I would beg to differ,” I reply.
My mother’s face furrows in confusion as she speaks. “What do you mean? Is something going on at school I don’t know about? I can talk to the principal.”
I throw my hand up to my forehead and cut her off. “No Mom, I just don’t enjoy my birthday as much as Lindsey does.”
“I don’t see why not,” she says with a stern, confused look.
“Mom, never mind. It’s going to be great just like you said,” I say, forcing enthusiasm I don’t feel.
Mom’s expression changes to a smile as she claps her hands together, does a little hop toward the door with Dad in tow and says, “Well great, you two get dressed. I’m going to get breakfast ready.”
I know I’m not the daughter she wants. I know she wishes I were more like Lindsey.
Perfect.
The door shuts and Lindsey looks at me with a scowl. “Lauren, you can’t pretend to be excited just once. You know how much she puts into making our birthday special.”
“I know Lindsey, but I just have a feeling that it’s going to be the worst one yet and I can’t shake it.”
Lindsey rolls her eyes. “Did you have a bad dream or something?”
“No. I can’t explain it. It’s something Taylor said last night.”
“What did she say?”
“She was doing that stupid tarot card thing and said that this year will bring death and despair.”
Lindsey laughs, light and dismissive. “Taylor is always saying stuff like that to scare you. Let it go. It’s going to be fine.”
She pauses, her smile faltering just enough to notice. “Okay, well, let’s get ready. And please try to look happy.”
We walk out into the cluttered hallway that Mom insists, like the rest of our house, is homey. We enter the open-concept kitchen connected to the family room. Mom has decorated the house so much for our birthday that it looks like a unicorn threw up everywhere. Mom stands by the stove finishing the last batch of pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream. Of course—Lindsey’s favorite.
Sitting at the counter is our older sister Brooke, studying for the exam she has at two o’clock today, her notebook already worn from being flipped through too many times. She’s in law school, and I know how proud my parents are of her—especially Dr. Turner, our dad, an orthopedic doctor who has always been the calm one in our family. Growing up, having him around meant scraped knees were brushed off and broken bones were handled without panic; when I was six and fell off my bike and broke my arm, he came to the rescue and made sure it healed perfectly.
Brooke, on the other hand, is beautiful. Sitting there at the counter, she runs her hand through her golden-blonde hair, strands falling loosely around her face. Like our mother, she’s fair-complected, and she shares the heart-shaped lips and long eyelashes Lindsey and I have. She’s skinny—but at least she has a chest, something Lindsey and I never got blessed with. Brooke fits easily into every room she enters, like she belongs wherever she ends up. She catches me looking at her and lifts her golden-brown eyes just long enough to say, “Happy birthday,” before dropping her gaze right back to her notes, already pulled into her own world.
Not even two seconds later, our younger sister Taylor hobbles out of her room still in pajamas. She looks like she didn’t sleep at all. She sits next to Brooke and lays her head down without a word.
Lately, I’ve felt bad for Taylor. For months now, she’s been having nightmares that jolt her awake in the middle of the night, leaving her exhausted and quiet by morning. She never talks about them unless someone presses, and even then, she shrugs it off like it’s nothing. But it isn’t nothing. Nightmares don’t hollow someone out like that unless they linger after waking.
As I look around the kitchen, I can’t help but notice how different we all are. Lindsey, Taylor, and I all have platinum-blonde hair, while Mom’s is sandy brown and Dad’s is dark. Our skin is pale where theirs is warm. Taylor has Dad’s chocolate-brown eyes, while Lindsey and I got Mom’s blue ones. The only thing Lindsey and I really share with Mom is our wavy hair.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about it so much. Maybe it’s because we’ve been learning about genes and DNA in science class—dominant traits, recessive ones, the way some things show up while others stay hidden. It feels strange, noticing my family like this, like I’m seeing pieces instead of people.
Taylor suddenly starts shoveling pancakes into her mouth like she hasn’t eaten in days.
“I don’t know how you’re so skinny,” I say.
She scowls at me. “At least I’m not old.”
Without looking up from her notes, Brooke chimes in, “Wow. If they’re old, what does that make me?”
Taylor snorts. “If eighteen is old, then twenty-one is ancient.”
Mom shoots us an unapproving look. “Girls, that’s enough. Be nicer to one another.”
She turns back to the sink, staring out the window for a second longer than necessary. The look on her face isn’t angry—it’s tired. As quickly as it appears, it’s gone, and she straightens like nothing happened.
“Taylor Marie,” she says, “why are you not dressed for school? You leave in ten minutes.”
Taylor groans, sliding off her stool. “Ugh. I’m going.” She disappears down the hallway, her footsteps heavy.
A few minutes later, she reappears wearing jeans and a hoodie, her hair still slightly damp. She grabs a piece of toast on her way past the counter and heads for the door without saying much, already halfway somewhere else.
Right on cue, Dad walks into the kitchen, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. He leans down and kisses Mom on the cheek.
“I love you, Andrea.”
Then he comes around the counter, pressing a quick kiss to each of our heads like we’re still little. “Happy birthday, ladybugs.”
I’ve never been a fan of that nickname.
Dad grabs his keys and heads for the door, already focused on his day. Mom calls after him, “Jake, be careful and have a good day at work.”
The door closes behind him, and the house settles into a quieter rhythm—the kind that means it’s almost time to leave.
We’re almost out the door when Mom suddenly calls our names. She rushes toward us, something clenched tightly in her hands, like she’s afraid it might disappear if she lets go. She doesn’t look frantic—she looks focused, the way she does when she’s already made up her mind.
She presses an amulet into my palm. It’s heavier than it looks—gold, worn smooth around the edges, with a red stone set deep in the center. The metal is cool against my skin, but the stone isn’t. It holds warmth in a way that makes me want to drop it. Lindsey is handed one too, hers set with a white stone. It looks newer. Cleaner. Like it hasn’t been waiting as long.
Mom doesn’t smile. Instead, she grips our wrists, her fingers tight, almost painful. Her voice drops, sharp and urgent.
“Do not take these off,” she says. “Not at school. Not at night. Not for anything.”
For a second, none of us speak.
“Promise me,” she adds.
“Yes, Mom,” we say together.
She studies our faces like she’s committing them to memory, her gaze lingering just a moment too long, then finally lets go, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Outside, we climb into the car—Lindsey driving, Taylor in the passenger seat, me in the back. The doors shut almost too loudly, the sound echoing in the small space before Lindsey turns the key and pulls away from the curb.
As we drive, the house disappears in the rearview mirror. Mom stands in the doorway longer than usual, her figure shrinking until the turn in the road finally hides her.
Taylor twists around in her seat, studying us both. “So… are the necklaces supposed to mean something? Or is this just Mom being Mom?”
Lindsey laughs, light and easy, already easing the car into traffic. “It’s probably just a birthday thing. You know how she gets.”
I don’t answer.
The amulet rests against my chest, its weight more noticeable now that the car is moving. It presses through the fabric of my shirt, solid and unyielding, like it belongs there whether I want it to or not. The metal feels cold at first, then slowly warms, as if it’s adjusting to me instead of the other way around.
I tuck it beneath my collar and stare out the window, watching familiar streets slide past. For the first time, the drive to school feels longer—stretched, like something is waiting for us at the end of it.
At school, the parking lot buzzes with noise—engines revving, lockers slamming, voices overlapping like static. Lindsey walks a few steps ahead of me, her necklace catching the morning light like it wants to be noticed.
Mine doesn’t shine.
The moment we step inside, something feels off. Not bad. Just… charged.
“God, I love birthday energy,” Lindsey says, already scanning the crowd.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Electric.”
She barely hears me.
Students descend on her almost instantly—hands on her shoulders, voices overlapping, laughter ringing out as if she’s the center of gravity. Someone squeals her name. Someone else pulls her into a hug. Lindsey smiles easily, slipping into them like she belongs there.
I take a step back.
Taylor bumps into my arm, then glances toward her own locker down the hall. “See you later,” she says, already drifting toward a small group waiting for her.
“Yeah,” I reply.
She disappears into the crowd without ceremony, leaving me standing alone as Lindsey vanishes beneath a wave of attention.
I turn and head the opposite direction.
In class, I can’t focus. My fingers keep brushing the amulet beneath my shirt. It pulses—not visibly, but internally, like a second heartbeat that doesn’t quite sync with my own.
Across the room, Heather Gill watches me.
Between classes, I lock myself in the bathroom and grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles whitening against the porcelain. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too loud in the empty room. I lean closer to the mirror and pull the amulet from beneath my shirt.
The red stone looks darker than before—clouded, like something has settled inside it. The longer I stare, the more uneasy I feel, like I’m waiting for it to do something. For half a second, I swear something moves beneath the surface.
I shove it back under my collar and take a steadying breath before heading back into the hallway.
The corridors are packed, shoulders brushing mine as I make my way to my locker. I twist the dial, pop the latch, and reach inside for my books.
The door slams into my head.
Pain flashes white behind my eyes as I stumble back, the metallic clang echoing down the hallway. When I look up, Heather Gill is standing there, arms crossed, satisfaction written all over her face.
“Oops,” she says.
Before I can react, she flicks my forehead, snapping me out of the haze. “Freak.”
“Oh, Heather,” I say, forcing my voice steady even as my head throbs. “Haven’t you heard? It’s my birthday.”
She leans closer, her smile sharp. I pause, meeting her eyes.
“Why are you so obsessed with me?”
Her fist comes out of nowhere.
I hit the floor hard, my shoulder scraping against the tile. For a second, everything sounds far away—muffled, like I’m underwater. When the noise comes back, it’s wrong. Laughter. Whispers. The shuffle of feet moving on.
No one rushes to help.
A few students pause long enough to stare, then step around me like I’m something spilled in the hallway. Someone snorts. Someone mutters my name like it’s entertainment.
Heather is already gone.
I push myself up, my head pounding, the taste of blood sharp in my mouth. My hands shake as I press my sleeve to my lip and turn toward the nurse’s office, keeping my eyes on the floor so I don’t have to see anyone pretending not to notice.
The nurse barely looks up when I walk in.
“What happened?” she asks, already reaching for gloves.
“Locker accident,” I say.
She hums like she doesn’t believe me but doesn’t care enough to argue. She presses ice to my lip, dabs at the blood, checks my pupils with practiced efficiency.
“No fighting,” she says, like it’s a reminder and not a warning. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
I nod.
The amulet burns against my chest—hot, then fading—like it’s reacting to something I can’t see.
When she finally lets me leave, the hallway feels the same as before. Loud. Busy. Indifferent.
Like nothing happened at all.
I make it halfway down the hallway before Lindsey spots me.
She’s laughing about something, surrounded as usual, when her eyes land on my face. The smile slips instantly, like it never belonged there to begin with.
“Lauren?”
She’s at my side in seconds, hands gentle but urgent as she cups my face and tilts my chin toward the light. Her fingers hover, afraid to touch too much.
“What happened?” she asks. “Oh my God—what happened?”
I shrug, pulling back slightly. “Locker accident.”
She doesn’t buy it for a second.
Her eyes flick to my lip, then to my forehead, then down the hallway like she’s already searching for someone to blame. “Was it Heather?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Lindsey’s jaw tightens. For once, she doesn’t try to soften it or smooth it over. “I should’ve stayed with you,” she says quietly.
“This isn’t on you,” I reply, even though part of me wishes it were. Wishing means someone had been there to stop it.
She hesitates, then leans in and hugs me—quick, careful, protective. When she pulls back, she looks angry in a way I’ve never seen before.
“I’m walking you to class,” she says. Not a question.
We move through the halls together. People glance at us, then look away just as fast. No one asks. No one stops.
Nothing has changed.
Except now Lindsey sees it.
And that somehow makes it worse.
Lindsey walks me to class and doesn’t leave until I’m seated. She lingers in the doorway like she’s debating whether she should skip the rest of the day just to stay. When the bell rings, she finally goes, glancing back one last time before disappearing into the crowd.
Last period drags.
The teacher’s voice blends into the background, words stacking on top of each other without meaning. I stare at the clock, watching the second hand crawl, my head still throbbing in dull pulses. Every so often, my fingers drift to my chest, brushing the amulet beneath my shirt.
It’s warm.
Not uncomfortably so—just enough to notice. Like it’s awake.
I shift in my seat, trying to focus, but the room feels slightly off, like the floor isn’t quite level. The hum of the lights grows louder. The edges of desks blur for half a second before snapping back into place.
I blink hard.
Get it together.
When the final bell rings, chairs scrape back and the room erupts into movement. I stand—and the world tilts violently.
My vision warps, the walls bending inward like they’re breathing. Sound drops out, replaced by a rushing noise in my ears. I grab the edge of a desk, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The amulet burns—hot, sharp, immediate—then just as suddenly turns ice-cold.
I gasp.
And then it’s over.
The room snaps back to normal. The noise returns. Students stream past me, laughing, complaining, already forgetting the day.
No one notices.
I straighten slowly, my hands shaking just enough to annoy me. Whatever that was, it didn’t happen in my head. I know that much.
As I step into the hallway, Lindsey is already there, waiting like she promised. She scans my face, concerns flickering before she schools it into a smile.
“You good?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. Close enough.
We walk toward the exit together, the school emptying around us. Lockers slam. Voices echo. Life moves on.
But the feeling doesn’t.
It follows me out the doors and into the late afternoon air, settling deep in my chest like it’s found a permanent place to live.
Whatever today started, it isn’t done with me yet.
There’s a strange sense of relief once the car doors shut behind us, like the day can’t reach me anymore. Lindsey pulls out of the parking lot, tires crunching softly over gravel as the school shrinks in the rearview mirror. The radio clicks on low, some pop song filling the space between us, upbeat in a way that feels wrong.
For a minute, none of us say anything.
The road hums beneath the tires. Late afternoon sunlight flashes through the trees, strobing across the dashboard and Lindsey’s hands on the steering wheel.
Then Taylor twists around in her seat, one knee tucked under her, eyes widening when she really takes in my face. “So it was true,” she says. “Heather knocked you on your ass.”
“Taylor,” Lindsey snaps, sharp and immediate. “Watch your mouth.”
Taylor scoffs. “That’s not even cussing.”
“Yes, it is,” Lindsey says without hesitation. “And Mom hates that kind of language.”
Taylor rolls her eyes hard. “We’re not in Mom’s house.”
Lindsey doesn’t even glance over. “It’s still her car.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Taylor argues. “A house is a house. A car is just a car.”
“It’s not just a car,” Lindsey says, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. “It’s her rules. And besides”—she exhales through her nose—“I don’t like swearing. I never have.”
Taylor snorts. “Since when?”
“Since always,” Lindsey replies. “It’s gross. It sounds ugly. And once you start, you don’t stop.”
“You act like words are contagious.”
“They kind of are,” Lindsey says. “They stick.”
I lean my head against the window and let them go at it, the glass cool against my temple. Their voices rise and fall in a rhythm I’ve heard my entire life—Lindsey firm and controlled, Taylor pushing just to see where the line is. It’s familiar. Almost comforting. This is what normal sounds like.
Taylor mutters something under her breath but turns back around in her seat, defeated for now. Lindsey nudges the radio up a notch like that settles it.
I watch the road slide past outside—houses, trees, the same turns we’ve taken a hundred times. The argument fades, but the tight feeling in my chest doesn’t. The amulet rests against my skin, warm and insistent, like it’s paying attention even when no one else is.
School is over.
I should feel better.
I don’t.
The tightness in my chest hasn’t eased, and the amulet rests against my skin like a quiet reminder that something is different now. I slip my fingers beneath my collar and press the stone lightly, just to reassure myself it’s real.
It’s warm.
Taylor turns back around, already absorbed in her phone. Lindsey hums along to the radio, forcing brightness into the car like she can drown out the day if she tries hard enough.
I close my eyes for a second.
School is over. The worst of the day should be behind me.
I don’t believe that for a second.
When we get home, I don’t say anything. I grab my bag from the backseat, shut the car door a little harder than necessary, and head straight inside. The house is quieter than it was this morning, the decorations still hanging everywhere like they’re waiting for something.
I go straight to my room and drop onto my bed, shoes still on. The ceiling stares back at me, blank and unhelpful. My head throbs in dull waves, and for the first time all day, I let myself breathe.
I don’t get far.
The door swings open without a knock.
“Absolutely not,” I say, not even turning my head.
Lindsey stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already smiling like she’s prepared for a fight. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“You’re going to say we’re going out,” I reply. “And the answer is no.”
She sighs dramatically and steps into the room. “Lauren, please. I want to end our birthday on a good note.”
“I got punched in the face today,” I say flatly. “That was my birthday.”
Her smile falters, just a little. She sits on the edge of my bed, quieter now. “I know. And I’m sorry. But I don’t want to do tonight without you.”
I stare at the wall.
She watches me for a second, then pulls out the big guns. She tilts her head, drops her shoulders, and flashes me the puppy-dog eyes—the same ones she used when we were kids whenever she wanted me to play princesses.
Which I hated.
She used to shove a plastic tiara onto my head and insist I was the knight instead. Said it “fit my personality better.” I didn’t argue then. I don’t argue now.
I stare at her for a long second.
Then another.
She doesn’t blink.
I think about it for maybe five seconds. And even though today has been completely awful—embarrassing, painful, exhausting—and my sister can be the biggest pain in the ass, I love her. I want her birthday to be special, even if mine hasn’t been. She deserves to be happy, even if that happiness is loud and glittery and inconvenient.
I roll my eyes. “Fine,” I say. “But only for a few hours.”
Lindsey lets out a shriek like I’ve just handed her the world. She jumps once, then twice. “YAY! I am so excited. We are going to have so much fun!”
She spins on her heel and heads down the hallway like she’s afraid I might change my mind.
“I am not dressing up!” I call after her.
I know my sister. Dressing up, to Lindsey, means sparkles, tight clothes, and something designed to be noticed from across a crowded room. None of that is me.
She stops mid-step and turns around slowly, a grin spreading across her face. The kind of grin that says you can protest all you want, but this is already happening.
By the time she’s done with me, I barely recognize the girl staring back from the mirror.
My hair has been brushed and styled into something intentional. My face feels heavier—foundation, mascara, lashes that blink a little too dramatically. The outfit clings in places I usually hide and exposes skin I don’t think about.
I cross my arms, studying my reflection like it belongs to someone else.
Lindsey steps back, hands on her hips, clearly proud. “See? You clean up nice.”
“I look like I’m going undercover,” I mutter.
She laughs and leans in, lowering her voice. “Oh, by the way—I already told Mom we’re staying at Leah’s house.”
I turn to her slowly. “You really think that’s believable? She knows I don’t like Leah. And I have never—not once—been invited to her house.”
Lindsey giggles, completely unbothered. “Well, I told Leah I wasn’t going unless you came. So it is believable if it’s true.”
I look back at the mirror. At the lashes. The outfit. The version of me Mom wouldn’t question for even a second if Lindsey vouched for it.
I sigh. “Of course she believes it,” I say quietly. “It’s Mom. She wants to believe the best when it comes to you.”
Lindsey softens just a little, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “That’s because I’m trustworthy.”
I snort. “That’s not why.”
She grins anyway. “Ready?”
I glance at my reflection one last time.
No.
But I nod.
Lindsey grabs her keys and heads for the door before I can change my mind. I follow her outside, pulling my jacket tighter around myself as the door shuts behind us.
Mom calls after us from the kitchen, “You girls have fun.”
“Love you, Mom,” Lindsey replies easily, already halfway down the porch steps.
I pause for a second before adding, “Love you.”
Mom’s eyes flick briefly to the amulet resting against my chest. She doesn’t say anything about it—just nods once, her smile lingering a beat too long. “Be safe.”
The night air is colder than it should be, biting through my jacket as Lindsey unlocks the car. I slide into the front passenger seat out of habit, buckling myself in as the radio clicks on and fills the quiet with something upbeat that feels out of place.
The drive to Leah’s house passes in a blur of streetlights and familiar turns. Lindsey hums along to the music, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, while I stare out the window and try not to think about where we’re going—or why my chest feels tight all over again.
When we pull up to Leah’s house, Lindsey hops out and jogs up the driveway without hesitation. I stay in the car, staring straight ahead, already bracing myself.
The front door flies open and Leah comes rushing out like she’s been waiting behind it. She practically skips to the car, yanking the passenger door open and freezing when she finally looks at me.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God,” she says loudly. “Lauren? Is that you?”
I sigh and climb out of the front seat, sliding into the back before she can say anything else.
“You look like a freaking girl,” Leah adds, laughing as she climbs into the passenger seat and slams the door shut.
Lindsey beams from behind the wheel. “I know, right? I practically had to hold her down to get the fake eyelashes on.”
Leah twists around in her seat to look at me again, inspecting me like she’s still trying to figure out what she’s seeing. “You’re a miracle worker, Lindsey. I was nervous when you said Lauren was coming, but she looks cool enough to hang.”
The two of them immediately launch into conversation—talking over each other about boys, outfits, and who’s already at the party—like I’m not even sitting there.
I don’t mind.
I lean back against the seat and stare out the window, watching Leah’s house disappear through the rearview mirror as Lindsey pulls away from the curb. All I can think about is how badly I want to be home—curled up in my bed, staring at the back of my eyelids, pretending today never happened.
Instead, I’m here.
The car hums steadily as we drive, the radio playing low while Lindsey and Leah talk nonstop about people I barely know and things I don’t care about. Boys’ names blur together. Laughter fills the space between sentences. I tune it out and let my head rest against the window, counting streetlights as they pass.
Time stretches.
It feels like I’ve been in the car forever, like we’re driving in circles instead of toward anything real. The farther we get from home, the heavier my chest feels, like the air inside the car is slowly thinning. I shift in my seat and tug my jacket closer, suddenly aware of how tight the outfit feels, how out of place I am.
Finally, the bridge comes into view—the one on the south side of town where everyone hangs out if you’re friends with the right people. Music drifts through the open air long before we reach it, deep bass thumping through the night.
Lindsey parks near the crowd and hops out first, full of energy. Leah follows, practically bouncing on her toes.
I climb out last, my feet hitting the pavement a second slower than theirs.
As we walk toward the entrance, two massive guys with tattoos stand near the gate, arms crossed, clearly security. For a brief moment, I’m convinced they’re going to stop us.
“Axel!” Lindsey squeals, throwing her arms around him. She laughs and turns to the other guard. “Davion!”
She laughs, flirts shamelessly, and both guys seem more than happy to see her. Axel steps closer, blocking the entrance just long enough to grin down at her.
“Hey,” he says, “save me a dance tonight, Lindi.”
Lindsey doesn’t miss a beat. “In your dreams, Axel,” she shoots back, blowing him a flirty kiss as she walks past.
He laughs, shaking his head, and waves us through without another glance.
As soon as we’re inside the gate, Lindsey suddenly shoves something into my hand.
I look down and freeze. An ID. With my picture on it.
I look up at her. “Are you serious? This says I’m twenty-eight.”
She giggles. “So does mine, you goober. We’re twins—duh. And besides, I’ve had mine for a while.”
Before I can argue, she grabs Leah’s hand and starts dragging her toward the bar. “We’re getting drinks,” she announces over her shoulder. “And don’t even think about arguing, because there is no way you’re not drinking tonight.”
She glances back at me with a mischievous grin. “I’m going to surprise you.”
And just like that, they disappear into the crowd, swallowed by music, lights, and bodies.
I stand there for a moment, completely alone, the bass vibrating up through the soles of my shoes and into my bones. The music is too loud, too close, like it’s pressing in from all sides. People brush past me without looking twice, already lost in their own nights—laughing, shouting, spilling drinks, colliding and immediately forgetting about it.
I scan the yard, searching for somewhere—anywhere—that isn’t the center of it all. That’s when I spot the tree near the edge of the party, tucked into shadow and just far enough from the chaos to feel separate.
Perfect.
I weave my way through the crowd, dodging swaying bodies and outstretched arms, ignoring apologies that come too late and hands that linger a second longer than necessary. Flashing lights streak across my vision as I move, the world blurring at the edges until the noise finally starts to dull.
When I reach the tree, I step behind it and press my back against the rough bark. The texture bites slightly through my clothes, grounding in a way nothing else has all night. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, letting the music fade into a distant thrum.
I take a slow breath.
Then another.
The air smells like alcohol and sweat and something sweet I can’t place. My heart finally starts to slow, my shoulders dropping as the tension drains just enough for me to notice how tired I am.
I wish I were anywhere else.
I keep my eyes closed longer than necessary, pretending I’m invisible. The music hums in the background, distant and warped, like it’s coming from underwater.
That’s when the air changes.
It’s subtle—too subtle to point to—but my chest tightens anyway. The noise around me dulls, not disappearing, just lowering, like someone turned the volume down a notch. The amulet beneath my shirt shifts, warming against my skin.
I open my eyes.
Someone is standing across the yard, watching me.
Not glancing.
Not looking past me.
Watching.
He’s tall—noticeably so—even among the crowd, his broad frame cutting a still silhouette against the movement around him. Dark curls fall loosely around his forehead, messy in a way that looks intentional. He’s dressed simply, dark clothes that don’t try to stand out, but somehow make him harder to ignore.
He doesn’t sway to the music.
Doesn’t laugh.
Doesn’t talk.
He’s still.
And his eyes never leave me.
They’re dark—so dark they almost look black from here—and sharp in a way that makes my skin prickle. Not drunk. Not unfocused. Present.
My stomach drops.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. Parties are full of people with bad boundaries and worse judgment. It means nothing. I push off the tree and shift to the side, putting the trunk between us.
When I look again, he’s moved.
Closer.
My pulse stutters. I step away from the tree, trying to disappear back into the crowd, but the second I do, the space around me feels wrong—too tight, like I’ve stepped into the pull of something heavy.
He’s in front of me before I can fully process how.
I stop short.
Up close, he’s worse.
Older than most people here. Not by much—but enough. His shoulders are broad beneath his jacket, posture relaxed in a way that reads as confidence instead of ease. His face is sharp—strong jaw, faint shadow of stubble, lips curved like he’s already amused.
His eyes flick over me slowly, deliberately, like he’s cataloging details I didn’t offer.
My heart slams.
I try to move past him, angling toward the noise and the lights, but his hand closes around my arm.
Firm.
Warm.
Unavoidable.
Every nerve in my body lights up at once.
The amulet burns—hot and sudden—against my chest, like it’s reacting to him. My breath catches as I look up, trapped between his grip and his gaze.
He smiles.
It isn’t friendly.
It isn’t charming.
It’s the kind of smile that knows something I don’t—and enjoys that it does.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The music surges behind us, bodies colliding and laughing, but it all feels distant, unreal, like we’re standing in a pocket of silence carved out just for this moment.
Then he leans in, close enough that I can smell smoke and something darker beneath it.
“Bellamy.”
He says it like an introduction.
Or a warning.
And suddenly, every strange feeling I’ve had all day—the dread, the weight, the sense that something was waiting—locks into place.
I don’t know who he is.
But I know one thing for sure.
Nothing about tonight was an accident.
