The world tilted.
One second, Ethan was walking—the next, his knees buckled, sending him crashing onto the pavement. His palms scraped against rough concrete, the sting sharp and sudden. A car horn blared as tires screeched past, close enough that the rush of air whipped through his hair.
"ETHAN!"
Jennie's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. She was running toward him, her face a mask of panic, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She grabbed his arm, yanking him up so hard his shoulder protested.
"Are you alright?!" Her grip was iron-tight, nails digging into his skin like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go.
Ethan blinked, dazed. For a split second, he thought he saw her —a girl with a smile so bright it burned through the London fog. Then the image was gone.
Jennie didn't wait for an answer.
SLAP.
The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed in the empty street. His face burned, but the pain barely registered—not when Jennie's eyes were wild, tears streaming down her face.
"You selfish bastard!" Her voice cracked. "You don't get to disappear like that! Not after Dad! Not with Mom—"
Ethan didn't let her finish.
He yanked her into a hug so tight he could feel her heartbeat hammering against his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice raw. "I'll be better. I promise."
Jennie shuddered against him, her fists clenched in his hoodie. For a long moment, she didn't move. Then, slowly, her arms wrapped around him, her grip just as desperate as his.
"...Prove it," she whispered back.
The smell of smoke hit Jennie like a slap.
She jolted upright, heart hammering—fire?—before her sleep-addled brain registered the scent. Not burning plastic. Not electrical. Just... burnt food.
"Eth—?"
She stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over a stray shoe in her rush. The kitchen light spilled into the hallway, painting the walls in warm yellow. And there he was.
Ethan.
Standing at the stove.
Cooking.
Jennie froze in the doorway.
Her brother—the same Ethan who'd been a walking ghost for months, who barely remembered to eat unless she shoved food in his face—was flipping pancakes. Badly. The pan was a disaster of blackened batter, smoke curling toward the ceiling.
"What are you doing?" The words came out hoarse.
Ethan didn't look up. "Burnt pancakes. Like you love."
A memory flashed—Mom, exhausted after Dad's funeral, burning breakfast because she kept staring at his empty chair. Jennie had choked them down with a smile.
"You... remember that?"
Ethan shrugged. One shoulder hitched higher than the other, the way it always did when he was trying too hard to seem casual. "Sit."
Jennie sat.
The plate clattered in front of her. Three charred circles, edges crispy black. She poked one. It crunched.
"So." Ethan wiped his hands on a towel that might've been clean yesterday. "I'll get ready—"
"To?" Jennie interrupted.
"Show I'm not a waste of space." He said it so simply, like stating the weather. "Also, congrats on the job."
Jennie's throat tightened. Since when did he—*
"Where's my brother," she blurted, "and what have you done to him?"
Ethan's lips quirked. "Ouch. Like I'm a fun person. I care a lot."
Jennie lifted an eyebrow.
"...Okay, fine," he admitted. "Now I am kind of."
And just like that—they were laughing. Really laughing. The kind that made Jennie's stomach hurt, that left her wheezing as Ethan delivered terrible joke after terrible joke in his driest voice.
"Yh, you can't go to work like that." Ethan vanished into the hall closet, emerging with a black suit draped over his arm. "Here."
Jennie's breath caught.
Dad's suit.
The one he'd worn to her graduation. The wool was still smooth under her fingers, still faintly smelled like his cologne. A tear escaped before she could stop it.
"Don't cry." Ethan's voice was softer now. "I'll make you not cry ever again."
Jennie swiped at her eyes. "Yh, you're getting late."
"Yh, it's true. Jonah—"
"I mean college, dumbass."
"Jonah's cool." Ethan grinned when Jennie rolled her eyes.
She was still smiling as she headed for the door, Dad's suit carefully folded over her arm.
"Bye. I love you," Ethan called after her.
Jennie paused. Turned. "What, are you Flash?"
"Just in a good mood." His smirk was familiar—the same one he'd worn as a kid before pulling some stupid prank.
For the first time in months, Jennie dared to hope.
The moment Ethan spotted Jonah leaning against the brick wall outside the science building, he knew this wouldn't be easy.
His best friend's usual relaxed posture was gone—replaced by stiff shoulders and hands jammed deep in his pockets. Even from twenty feet away, Ethan could see the tension in Jonah's jaw.
"Bro—"
Jonah's head snapped up. The look in his eyes made Ethan's stomach drop.
"I'm sorry," Ethan said before Jonah could speak. "For real, I am."
Jonah pushed off the wall with a humorless laugh. "Sorry? Sorry is what you're saying?" He stepped closer, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Do you have any fucking idea what your sister went through yesterday?"
Ethan flinched. The image of Jennie's tear-streaked face flashed in his mind—how her hands had trembled when she slapped him.
"I know I've been a dick," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "An asshole—"
"Don't forget dush bag," Jonah cut in, ticking off each word on his fingers. "Idiot. Stubborn. Hypocritic fool who ghosts his only family when they need him most."
The words landed like punches. Ethan didn't dodge them. He deserved this.
"I get it," he said quietly. "I'm all that. But please..." His voice cracked in a way that surprised even him. "I want my best friend back."
For a long moment, Jonah just stared at him, dark eyes searching. Ethan held his breath.
The sounds of campus life—chattering students, distant laughter, the shuffle of backpacks—faded into white noise.
Then Jonah sighed, the fight draining from his shoulders. "I'm still thinking about it."
Ethan nudged him with his elbow, giving him the look that always made Jonah cave back in secondary school—eyebrows raised, lips pressed together in a poor imitation of puppy-dog eyes.
"Ugh, fine, bro," Jonah groaned, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Their handshake was muscle memory—a quick snap of fingers, a bump of fists, ending with their palms slapping together. Jonah held on a second longer than usual.
"For real bro," he said, voice low and serious. "Don't do that again."
Ethan nodded. "Won't."
They fell into step together, the familiar rhythm of their friendship slotting back into place as they headed toward the quad. Jonah bumped their shoulders together.
"So," he said casually, too casually, "you finally broke up with Becky?"
The question hit like a bucket of ice water. Ethan's steps faltered.
"No," he admitted after a beat. "I just... don't want to be all the things you called me anymore."
Jonah studied him for a long moment before shrugging. "It's fine. Just happy you're acting like yourself again."
The afternoon sun warmed the back of Ethan's neck as he sprawled on the grassy hill behind the library—their spot since first year. Jonah was mid-story about some girl he'd met at a club, hands flying wildly as he reenacted the disastrous encounter.
Then—
A sudden, violent tug in Ethan's chest.
His breath caught. The world narrowed to a single point as his body jerked upright, eyes scanning the crowded courtyard below.
There. A girl laughing near the fountain, her dark curls bouncing as she threw her head back. For one heart-stopping second—
But no. The curve of her smile was wrong. The spark in her eyes wasn't hers.
"Yo." Jonah waved a hand in front of his face. "You good? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Ethan blinked, the strange pull still humming under his skin like a live wire. "Yeah," he lied. "Just thought I recognized someone."
But as Jonah resumed his story, Ethan kept searching the crowd, unable to shake the feeling that something—or someone—was calling to him.
Rose woke with the ghost of Carl's hands still burning on her skin.
Sunlight streamed through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets where they'd—
No. She squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing happened. Not really.
"Good morning, gorgeous." Carl's voice was sleep-rough, her bare arm slung carelessly over her eyes as she stretched.
The movement made the sheet slip dangerously low.
Rose's throat went dry. "Don't say that."
Carl peeked from under her elbow, lips quirking. "You didn't mind it last night."
Heat flooded Rose's face. She bolted to the bathroom, slamming the door harder than necessary.
The mirror showed what she already knew—pupils blown wide, lips bitten red, the telltale flush creeping down her neck.
"I'm not committing to that," she whispered to her reflection. Nothing happened. Right?
But her body remembered. The way Carl's fingers had traced the waistband of her pajamas. The hot press of mouths when they'd—
Stop.
She splashed cold water on her face. The droplets slid down her cheeks like the tears she refused to shed.
What was that feeling yesterday?
Lecture Hall
The professor's voice droned on about thermodynamics. Rose tapped her pen against her notebook, the rhythm syncopated with her racing thoughts.
Then—
A jerk in her chest.
Her vision tunneled. The lecture hall melted away, replaced by—
Him.
Dark skin glowing under golden sunlight. A smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. And his hands—rough palms skimming her waist, fingers intertwining with hers like they'd done it a thousand times before.
She could feel the calluses. Smell his scent—something warm and spicy—
"You over there!"
The vision shattered.
Thirty pairs of eyes stared at her. The professor frowned over his glasses.
"Are you alright?" Her seatmate whispered.
Rose's face burned. "That's so embarrassing," she thought, nodding stiffly.
As the lecture resumed, her mind reeled.
Who was that? Why could I feel him?
Rose paced the length of the tiny dorm room, her bag half-packed. She shouldn't leave without explaining. But how did you explain something you didn't understand yourself?
The door creaked open.
Carl froze in the doorway, gaze flickering from the packed bag to Rose's face.
"Welcome back," Carl said, leaning against the doorframe.
Her usual confidence seemed strained. "Oh. You're leaving."
Rose's fingers tightened around a folded shirt. "I was waiting to talk to you first."
Carl shrugged, too casual. "We can still keep in touch when you go."
The words hit like a slap. Keep in touch? Like they were just classmates? After everything that almost happened?
"Why are you acting like we're just friends?" The question burst out before Rose could stop it. "After what happened between us—"
Carl's eyebrows shot up. "What did happen, Rose?" She crossed her arms. "We didn't kiss. We didn't... do anything, really. The universe literally knocked before we could."
Rose opened her mouth, then closed it. Carl was right—technically. But her body still burned with the memory of almost.
"Is that what you want?" Carl's voice softened. "For something to happen between us?"
Rose's phone buzzed violently in her pocket, saving her from answering.
Unknown Number: Who are you?
Carl's eyes flicked to the screen. "Expecting a call?"
Rose's thumb hovered over the keyboard. The same strange pull from earlier thrummed through her veins. Slowly, she typed:
>> Who's asking?
The reply came instantly.
>> The guy who's been dreaming of you. Where are you?
Carl's eyebrow arched. "Problem?"
Rose's heart pounded. This isn't happening
But the next message glowed on the screen, undeniable:
>> Find me.