Chapter 7 Jace
Jace
Three a.m. tastes like burnt coffee and unspoken truths.
I'm already on my second pot when footsteps creak down the hallway.
Not surprised—none of us have been sleeping much since Bree started avoiding us.
The house feels wrong with her hiding upstairs, like we're all walking on eggshells, waiting for something that might never come.
Wes appears in the doorway, moving with that careful quiet he's perfected over the years.
He slides into his usual spot at the table without a word—same chair he's claimed since we moved in here.
But something's different tonight. He looks like hell, dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess.
But there's something else too. Something I can't quite put my finger on.
His face looks... sharper somehow. More defined. Like someone adjusted the contrast on a photo.
"Coffee?" I ask, already reaching for another mug.
He nods, not looking up from where his hands are folded on the table. I pour, add the ridiculous amount of sugar he pretends he doesn't want, and slide it across to him.
"Rough night?"
Another nod. The kind that says you have no idea.
I settle across from him, cradling my own mug like it might contain answers instead of caffeine. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. Wes has always been quiet—it's one of the things I've always liked about him. No need to fill every moment with noise.
But this quiet feels different. Heavier.
"Rhett nearly set the kitchen on fire a few days ago," I say, testing the waters. "Not on purpose. Just... couldn't touch anything without it heating up."
Wes's eyes flick to mine. Dark, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Coffee filters. They started browning before he even touched them. And when he grabbed the pot..." I shake my head. "Steam rising off his skin like he was a damn radiator."
Wes goes very still. "That's not normal."
"No shit." I take a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter burn. "The man looked terrified of his own hands. Can't blame him."
"Is he okay?"
"Physically? Yeah. Mentally?" I shrug. "About as okay as any of us right now."
Wes is quiet for a long moment, staring down into his coffee like it might show him something. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Gray had a dream the other night. One of hers, I think."
I set my mug down carefully. "How do you know?"
"He said it felt like... I don’t know. Like he was inside her skin. Woke up shaking, said Claire’s name like it was his mom's.
Something cold slides down my spine. "He just told you that?"
"Didn't have to. I could see it in his face. The way he looked at me like he'd just lived through something that wasn't his to live through." Wes meets my eyes, and there's something raw there. Vulnerable. "It hit him hard."
I don't question it. Should, maybe. A week ago I would have. But we're past the point of disbelief now. Past the point where any of this makes sense in normal terms.
"It's not just her, is it," I say.
"No."
"It's all of us."
We both look up.
Theo’s in the doorway now, hair rumpled, eyes shadowed with the same exhaustion we’ve all been wearing.
None of us heard him approach. But it fits. Theo’s always been the quiet one—watching, listening, waiting for the moment to speak.
He walks to the counter, grabs a mug, but doesn’t pour anything. Just stands there, turning it in his hands like it might help him think.
"I've been having dreams too," he says quietly. "Not hers. Or maybe... not just hers."
He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't describe what he's seeing. But there's something in his voice—a weight that makes my chest tighten.
"They don't feel like memories," he continues. "They feel like warnings."
Something cold slides down my spine. "Warnings about what?"
"I don't know." Theo's grip tightens on the empty mug. "But whatever's coming... it's bigger than just us."
The air in the kitchen shifts—subtle, but I feel it. Like the pressure dropping before a storm. And for a second, just a breath, I swear I feel something respond to the spike of anxiety in my chest.
A fork on the counter lifts slightly, hovers for a heartbeat, then clicks back down.
We all stare at it.
Nobody says anything.
Theo glances at me, but doesn't comment. Doesn't ask. Just sets his mug down carefully and takes a step back.
Shit.
I clench my hands into fists and try to shake it off. But the air still feels wrong.
This isn’t just Bree anymore. It’s not just her scars lighting up or strange crowns appearing. Something’s happening to us too.
Footsteps on the stairs save me from spiraling further. Heavy, familiar treads that could only belong to Rhett and Gray. They appear together, both in sweatpants and hoodies, both carrying the same weight of sleeplessness the rest of us wear like a second skin.
"Couldn't sleep," Gray says to no one in particular, moving to lean against the counter.
"None of us can," Theo replies without looking up.
They don't need explanation. Don't ask why we're all awake at three in the morning, sitting in a kitchen that feels too quiet without Bree's easy presence. They just join the circle, settling into the familiar rhythm of shared insomnia.
Rhett takes the chair next to Wes, careful not to touch the wood with his bare hands. Gray claims his usual spot by the window. And suddenly we're all here—all except the one person who should be.
The mist drifts through the hallway as if summoned by the thought, curling toward the center of our group like it's trying to fill the empty space she's creating between us. None of us mention it. We don't need to.
I glance around the room—at these four men who've been my brothers, my anchors, my family for longer than I can remember. We've always known how to carry each other through the hard times. How to exist together in the spaces between words.
This? We'll get through this too. Probably.