Chapter 22 Evie #2
I stare at the parking lot. My wrist aches under the binding like it’s reminding me that even in grief, I’m owned by rules.
Kaia’s voice is careful. “You don’t have to stay.”
That gets my attention. I look at her, eyes narrowed, because there’s a trap in that sentence. Kaia meets my gaze steadily.
“I’m not saying… abandon everything,” she says, choosing each word like it matters. “I’m saying… you don’t have to rot here out of obligation.”
My throat tightens.
Kaia swallows. “You can come with me.”
The words land like a punch. I stare at her like she’s insane.
“Kaia,” I whisper. “You live in hotels and schedules and—and there’s demons.”
Kaia nods. “Yes. But it’s not just hotels.” She swallows. “We have a home base.”
I go still.
Kaia keeps her voice low, practical, like she’s offering something real, not a fantasy. “It’s a warded building Eon owns. Private. Security in the lobby, Council access, medical on-site, comms that don’t leak.” Her jaw tightens. “Rules.”
“Rules,” I repeat, tasting it.
“Privacy constraints,” she adds, honest. “No random visitors. No telling people where you live. You’d have your own key card, your own space—” She pauses.
“And if you come with me, you should know now: you’re not walking into normal.
You wouldn't be trapped, but there would be restrictions.” Her voice drops.
“You can leave anytime. I won’t ever take your choices from you. ”
I’m quiet for a moment too long.
“I can’t bring her back,” Kaia adds, voice cracking. “I can’t— I would—” She swallows hard. “But I can—” Her voice drops. “I can stop running from you.”
My chest aches so hard I think I might be sick. I press my palms into my eyes again, unable to think. When I lower them, Kaia is still looking at me like she’s willing to sit here all night if that’s what it takes.
My voice comes out small and broken. “If I go with you…”
Kaia leans in slightly, hope flickering.
I continue, harsh, because softness will kill me. “I’m not going to be your secret.”
Kaia’s eyes widen. “You won’t be.”
“I’m not going to be something you tuck away when it gets complicated,” I say, voice trembling with rage and grief. “I’m not going to be the girl you leave behind again.”
Kaia’s face crumples, pain sharp. “I won’t,” she says immediately. “I won’t leave you behind ever again, Evie. I swear.”
I swallow, throat burning.
“If the thing that did this is tied to your world,” I whisper, “then I’m not letting you fight it without me.”
Kaia goes still.
I laugh once, wet. “I couldn’t save her,” I say, and it hurts so much my whole body shakes. “But I can make sure it doesn’t get you too…”
Kaia’s eyes shine.
She whispers my name like it’s a prayer. “Evie.”
I stare at her, grief ripping me open wide enough that I can’t keep lying anymore.
“I loved you when we were teens,” I say, voice raw. “And I love you now. I’m done pretending I don’t.”
Kaia’s breath breaks. She looks like she’s been punched and kissed at the same time.
“I never stopped,” she whispers. “I just—I buried it under work. Under survival. Under being told it was dangerous.”
My chest tightens.
“Everything with you is dangerous,” I whisper.
Kaia’s smile is shaky, devastated. “I know.”
I look at her and the grief doesn’t go away. It just makes room.
Room for rage.
Room for love.
Room for the fact that I am still here, still breathing.
I reach for her before I can second-guess myself, grabbing the front of her hoodie like I did in the Ferris wheel.
Kaia’s hands come up to my face, gentle like she’s afraid I’ll break.
“Can I…” she begins..
I nod.
Kaia kisses me with the utmost gentleness. I cling to her, anchoring myself to something real. Kaia holds me like she’s finally allowed to.
When we break for air, my forehead rests against hers and my cheeks are wet with tears.
My voice is small. “I’m so tired.”
Kaia’s eyes close briefly, pain and love written all over her face. “I know.”
She presses a kiss to my temple.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers.
And for the first time since the noise started, I believe her, just enough to keep breathing.
Kaia keeps her voice low, hand rubbing over my arm. “Do you want to go inside? It’s cold out here.”
I swallow hard. “Sure.”
We stand.
My legs feel like they belong to a different timeline, one where I’m not walking away from my grandmother’s death and toward my ex-best friend like the world hasn’t completely lost its mind.
Kaia stands one step behind me, close enough that I can feel her warmth, far enough that it still feels like my choice.
The door opens. The house smells like lavender and old wood and the faint ghost of Grandma’s tea.
It hits me like a shove.
My breath catches. I step inside and the silence is… physical. It presses against my ears.
I flick on the entry light. The living room is exactly as we left it yesterday. Grandma’s chair. Her throw blanket folded neatly over the arm. A book open on the side table like she’s just in the bathroom and will be back any second.
My throat tightens until it hurts. I take my shoes off because muscle memory is cruel.
Kaia follows, quiet. She pauses by the doorway like she’s waiting for permission to exist in my space.
I hate that my first instinct is to snap at her.
But more than that, I hate that my second instinct is to pull her closer, so the house doesn’t swallow me whole.
“Come in,” I mutter.
Kaia steps in carefully. “Okay.”
She closes the door behind us. The click sounds too loud. I stand there staring at Grandma’s chair, and something in me caves.
“I can’t—” I whisper, then stop, because what even is the sentence. I can’t what? I can’t do this? I can’t be here? I can’t be the only heartbeat in this house?
Kaia moves closer.
“Evie,” she says softly.
I shake my head once, fast, refusing the tears.
Kaia doesn’t touch me yet. She just stands in front of me, close enough that her presence blocks the chair from my line of sight.
“I can—” she starts, then stops, recalibrating like she’s fighting the instinct to go into leader-voice. “I can make the energy quieter,” she says instead. “Just… for a minute. So you can breathe.”
I swallow. “Do whatever.”
Kaia nods once.
She doesn’t summon Aurora. She doesn’t flare purple. She doesn’t turn into anything mythic.
She just reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out a small, flat charm that looks like a cheap acrylic keychain. Eon’s logo is on one side.
It looks stupidly normal in her fingers.
“They hand these out to staff,” she murmurs. “Council slips sigils into the design. It’s… not a full ward. Just an energetic hush.”
“Of course they do,” I rasp.
Kaia turns it over once, thumb tracing the edge like she’s remembering instructions. Then she lifts it toward the nearest window and presses it to the glass.
No big flash. No dramatic glow. Just a faint shimmer that ripples outward—like heat off pavement—followed by a soft, low vibration I feel more than hear, settling into the bones of the house.
The air changes. Not sealed. Not safe. Just… calmer, as if someone finally closed a window that’s been rattling in the wind.
Kaia drops her hand. The charm stays on the window.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “It won’t stop anything big. But it’ll make the… edges less sharp.”
I manage a rough, sarcastic exhale. “Great. My house is officially a magical bubble. Grandma would’ve loved that.”
Kaia’s mouth twitches, grief flickering behind her eyes. “She would’ve made you label it.”
“For ghost,” I mutter automatically, and the words punch me in the ribs because that’s our old joke and I didn’t mean to say it.
Kaia freezes for half a second, expression softening in a way that makes me want to bite her and kiss her in the same breath.
“I—” I start, then stop, because my throat is closing again.
Kaia steps closer. “You don’t have to hold it in.”
“I do,” I snap, then my voice cracks and betrays me. “If I let it out, I don’t know if I’ll stop.”
Kaia’s gaze holds mine. “Then don’t stop.”
That’s the thing. That’s what she’s always been good at, making me feel like it’s safe to be a mess.
I hate it.
I need it.
My shoulders shake once, and then I’m crying in a way that’s ugly and real, my hand flying to my mouth like I can physically shove the sound back in.
Kaia catches my wrists gently and lowers them.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Let it happen.”
I shake my head, tears falling anyway. “I’m so mad.”
“I know.”
“I’m so—” I swallow, choking. “I’m so empty.”
Kaia’s eyes shine. “I know.”
I grip her hoodie like I’m anchoring myself to cloth instead of air. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not taking care of her.”
Kaia’s voice is rough now. “You’re still you.”
I laugh through tears, bitter. “Who the hell is that?”
Kaia touches my cheek, thumb gentle. “The girl who runs toward the sound tower when everyone else is chanting.”
I flinch. “Don’t make me a hero.”
Kaia shakes her head. “I’m not. I’m just… seeing you.”
My throat tightens again. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, furious at myself for crying like this in front of her.
Kaia doesn’t look away. Doesn’t make it weird. Doesn’t try to fix it. She just stays.
After a minute, my breathing steadies into something survivable. I step back, still holding onto her hoodie like an idiot.
“Come upstairs,” I mutter, because I can’t stand the living room. I can’t stand the chair. I can’t stand the space where my grandma should be.
Kaia nods. “Okay.”
We move through the house quietly. The stairs creak the same way they always have. My bedroom door sticks a little; I shoulder it open.
The room is dim. Ordinary. Mine.
I flick on the bedside lamp.
Kaia follows me. I turn to face her and realize my hands are still shaking, even now, even after the battle, even after the hospital, even after all of the crying.
Kaia notices.
She reaches out slowly, palm up. “Can I?”
I swallow. Nod once.
Kaia takes my hands in hers and brings them to her mouth, kissing my knuckles like it’s a promise.
My chest aches.