Chapter 2: AFTERSHOCKS

POV: Aria

The house was too quiet.

Not peaceful—quiet in the way a room gets after someone has shouted inside it. I stood in the doorway longer than made sense, trying to decide whether I had actually walked home with a stranger from the woods or if I had hallucinated the whole thing.

Except my palms still stung.

And the dirt under my nails wasn’t ordinary dirt. It clung the way clay does, packed into the edges like I’d pressed too hard, too deep.

I locked the door.

Then locked the deadbolt.

Then checked both for the third time.

“Okay,” I whispered. “You’re fine. Totally fine. Just… mildly losing it.”

I tossed my shoes aside and went straight to the bathroom sink. When the warm water hit my hands, the sting sharpened. Brown swirled down the drain—then darker brown, then something like dust and grit.

My reflection looked wrong. Not monstrous, but unfamiliar.

Eyes too alert.

Pupils too wide.

Cheeks flushed as if I’d run miles.

I leaned closer. “You are not partly anything. You are human. A normal, boring—”

My voice caught.

The memory of that moment in the forest—my fingers carving furrows in the earth—flashed through me so vividly that my stomach tightened.

“Nope,” I said out loud. “We’re not thinking about that.”

I splashed water on my face and forced myself to breathe slowly until the shaking eased.

The kitchen felt safer than my bedroom, somehow. I made toast—burned the first slice, nearly dropped the second—and ended up eating standing at the counter, staring at the lemon magnet holding my grocery list.

The normality of it grounded me.

Almost.

Halfway through my toast, my phone buzzed.

MAYA:
Check in. Alive? Dead? Half-dead?

I stared at the text for a second. I could lie. But the weight on my chest softened when I thought of Maya’s expression if she knew I was spiraling alone.

ME:

Alive.

Long day. Tell you tomorrow.

MAYA:
Girl, if you get murdered after sending that message I’m going to be soooo mad

I almost laughed. Almost.

ME:

Not murdered. Just tired.

Night.

MAYA:
Fine.

Night.

The conversation grounded me more than the toast did.

---

I climbed the stairs slowly. My bedroom looked exactly as I’d left it. The curtain was still pulled half across the window, letting in a slice of cold moonlight. I changed into sweats and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at the tight ache in my hands.

Then, because pretending wasn’t helping, I whispered:

“What is happening to me?”

The room didn’t answer.

But the night did.

Somewhere past the neighborhood, deep in the trees, something shifted its weight—soft, deliberate, patient. Not the way an animal moves. The way a decision moves.

A chill prickled across my shoulders.

I stood and crossed to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to see.

Frost silvered the grass. The fence cast sharp shadows. Beyond it, the first row of pines stood still. I didn’t see eyes or shapes, but the air felt… aware.

I dropped the curtain quickly.

“I’m closing my eyes,” I whispered into the empty room. “I’m sleeping. You—whatever you are—stay out there.”

It wasn’t a command. More like a hope disguised as one.

I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up, lying very still. My heartbeat was loud but steady.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

And right as I started to slip toward sleep, a sound drifted across the dark—

A low hum.

Not a growl.

Not a howl.

Something in-between.

Calling but not claiming.

My body responded before my mind did. My breath hitched. My fingers curled in the sheets.

No.

Not answering.

Not tonight.

I turned onto my side, squeezed my eyes shut, and waited for the sound to fade.

Eventually, it did.

I slept.

Not well.

But enough to make the morning feel like a new world with sharp edges.

---

The alarm dragged me awake with its usual cruelty.

My limbs felt heavy, but not sore. My senses were still too sharp—hearing the shift of the house settling, the distant thump of a neighbor’s door, the whisper of wind under the eaves.

This wasn’t normal.

I sat up slowly, pushing hair out of my face.

“Kai,” I whispered, the memory of gold eyes bright in my mind. “You said I’m awakening.”

But awakening into what?

I showered fast, trying to ignore how hot the water felt against my skin—too hot, almost electric. When I dressed, my clothes felt different too, the seams pressuring my shoulders lightly, as if the fabric were thinner.

I grabbed my bag.

I needed to go to work.

I needed to be around humans.

I needed to pretend my world hadn’t rearranged itself.

When I opened the back door, cold air rushed in.

And standing at the edge of the yard—just beyond the fence, exactly where he’d said he wouldn’t step—

Kai was waiting.

Like he’d been there for hours.

He didn’t wave.

He didn’t smile.

He just said, “Morning.”

And my world tipped again—not violently this time, but with the slow inevitability of something that had already begun and couldn’t be stopped.

I tightened my grip on my bag.

“…Hi,” I said.

And the day moved forward.