Adrien
Present
I lean over the open hood of the car, forearms braced against the cold metal while I quietly take it in.
The Mustang looks exactly like I left it years ago—neglected and half-forgotten.
A thin layer of dust coats the engine bay, dulling what used to gleam.
Nothing here has been touched in forever.
It reminded me too much of a time when I thought I knew what I was building toward.
Coming back here to fix it simply wasn’t something I could make myself do.
There wasn’t much use for it anymore. Our lives changed practically overnight. From one day to the next, all that mattered was staying unrecognized and moving efficiently. A bike made more sense.
I never even bothered buying another car. I told myself it was practical, but really, I just couldn’t bring myself to replace this.
But this sad, pathetic self is gone. Life is making some sense now. It’s not black and white anymore.
I twist the cap off the coolant reservoir and peer inside. It’s empty of course. Setting it aside, I grab a rag, wiping grime from my hands before it can sink into my skin. The smell of oil, metal, and gasoline hits me. My favorites.
My gaze drifts around the garage as I mentally check off what I’ve got and what I’ll need to bring this car back to life. Tools are scattered on the shelves, together with old boxes and spare parts I forgot I owned.
My hands desperately need something to do. My mind even more so. The psychiatrist told me to give Nat some space. To let her process, to not hover and to not interfere.
So I’m doing that.
What my future self does is his problem. I’m not making promises on his behalf. But right now, I’m here—grounded and busy.
She went on a walk with Kiara anyway. And with two other guys following them without their knowledge, of course. Respectable distance, but constant supervision, like a chaperone situation straight out of the eighteenth century.
I smile to myself and reach deeper into the engine bay, getting my hands dirty.
Then Kasien appears out of nowhere, leaning against the side of the car like he’s been standing here longer than I noticed.
“So,” he says casually, nodding toward the open hood, “what did the psychiatrist tell you today?”
I straighten up to look at him.
He’s too scared to go see his sister. He feels responsible for all of it—for her, for me, for every wrong turn that led us here.
He carries it all like it’s his job to hold the world together with his bare hands and it’s tearing my heart open every time I realize.
But I get it. I feel very much responsible too.
“Well,” I begin, slowing down, searching for the least brutal way to phrase it. “Nat still believes I’m just a trick of her mind.”
Kas freezes mid-movement.
“But that’s okay,” I continue quickly. “Because first she needs to get used to the fact that the illusion won’t end with the fire or with…Lucien.”
He doesn’t say anything. His face drains of color, jaw tightening like he’s swallowing something sour.
For a split second, my mind flashes back to this morning. To Lucien. To how easily it all tipped over once I started. I woke up with my knuckles burning and him beneath me.
We still need him, at least until we find his father and end it properly.
But there’s too much aggression and pressure bottled up with nowhere clean to go. And when I snap, I sometimes lose track of time and reality. One moment I’m standing, the next I’m straddling a body, still hitting like stopping would mean something else breaks instead.
And Lucien just takes it. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t beg, or anything. It’s like he made peace with the consequences. Wearing that too sure of himself mask even when he’s beaten.
Both Kas and I stare into the dirty inside of the car for a moment, both of us quiet, both of us feeling the heaviness of this conversation.
Then I roll my shoulders, and reach back into the car.
“And then,” I restart the conversation. “When she’s not scared of it, she can start getting used to the fact it’s maybe not an illusion at all,” I explain, my hands tracing the lines on the engine, checking for splits and damage.
“And after that it will just… settle somehow,” I conclude.
Kas nods once, processing it.
“Do you agree with that process?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow, already knowing I never really follow processes.
A crooked smile settles on my lips. “I guess. But I think I can get to her sooner.”
“Don’t push her,” he says immediately.
“No, not at all,” I reply. “I’ll just explain and talk.” I gesture vaguely, like that alone could fix everything. “Once she connects the missing pieces, it’ll be easier for her to accept reality.”
“Careful,” he says, quieter this time. “Really.”
“The new medication should make her more stable,” I add, lowering my voice without meaning to.
It feels weird to talk about her like that. It feels wrong. I wish she wouldn’t have to take anything. Or that we wouldn’t have to use phrases like making her stable.
None of us is actually stable. No, all of us are dramatically unstable, so it feels a little unfair that she’s the one everyone labels as crazy.
I shift, uncomfortable, and change the subject.
“Still nothing from Devereaux?”
Kas shakes his head. “Still nothing.”
I lift my gaze to him, frowning. “Why is nobody coming after us? Why is he not contacting us?” I ask, genuinely baffled. “We literally wiped his son’s whole dungeon. He must’ve figured we have him by now.”
He gives me a look and shrugs, eyes drifting to the floor.
“Maybe,” he starts slowly, “he just doesn’t see a reason to rush.”
“What do you mean,” I reply.
“I mean,” Kas says, “old Devereaux probably knows we’re not stupid enough to kill him.”
“You think he won’t do anything about it?”
“No,” he replies instantly. “He definitely will. He’ll just take his time. So we don’t feel like we have any leverage.”
“Right,” I say lazily. “Then we really need to find him first, kill them both, and disappear,” I state, turning back to the car.
After a while, I realize Kasien is suspiciously silent. I turn back to him.
“Or you have a better idea?” I ask ironically.
He just shrugs, avoiding my eyes.
?
I let my body fall onto the bed, freshly showered, the car oil scrubbed from my hands, the wounds freshly re-bandaged.
I don’t move, I just lie there, wondering if that’s what my Selvaggia is doing right now too.
Lying still, listening to the rain, trying not to think too hard while checking her ceiling.
Unlike hers, though, my ceiling comes with a bonus.
There’s a huge, disgusting spider stretched out above me, legs splayed confidently, like he owns the place. He seems friendly enough. And I won’t judge him just for his furry appearance. I know better than that.
I light up a cigarette to fill the momentary emptiness inside me. Maybe I’ll smoke the poor guy out.
I gave her space.
For a whole day.
That counts. That definitely counts.
The woman didn’t specify a timeline. She didn’t say how long space is supposed to last. She just said space. Which I generously provided. Heroically, even.
It’s ten p.m. now. The rain has come back for the evening, wrapping the house in that warm quiet hum. It’s unbearably romantic. Too romantic to just lie here alone in an empty room, staring at spiders.
So that’s it.
It’s time for our second date. Also time for second base. And by that, in our case, I mean talking.
I shoot up from the bed, decision done, bad choices already locked in. No going back now. I need to see her. The thought settles urgently in my chest, louder than reason and everything I was told to do and not do.
A clean shirt goes on before I slip quietly out of the room. The stairs creak under my weight as I take them two at a time and then I’m suddenly standing in front of her door.
It feels unnatural to approach her like this, from the hallway, like a normal person, instead of climbing up the balcony the way I used to.
This feels too easy.
My knuckles tap politely against the wood. Softly enough that it won’t wake her if she’s asleep, but deliberately enough that she’ll hear it if she isn’t. When nothing happens, I hesitate for half a breath, then gently push the door open.
Her reading lamp is on, but she’s sleeping. A book rests loosely in her hands and her fingers are still curled around it like she gave up mid-sentence.
She fell asleep reading. Adorable.
The balcony doors are half-open, letting in the evening sounds and the cool, rain-washed air. The room is enormous—wooden floors, a worn Victorian rug, dark wooden furniture, heavy burgundy curtains that make the whole place feel like a gothic princess chamber.
Only there’s no princess occupying it. More like a silver-haired chaos, disguised as Rapunzel.
I close the door behind me and move toward the bed tentatively. My intention is simple—take the book from her hands and pull the sheet up around her shoulders. Nothing more. Just something normal, predictable, and safe.
I lean in, resting one knee against the side of the bed so I can reach her properly. My fingers brush the spine of the book as I try to slide it free—
And she jolts awake.
She jerks up and I jump back so fast it’s almost comical, hands lifting instinctively, palms out, like I’ve been caught trespassing. She pushes herself halfway upright, hair falling around her face, eyes wide but focused. She doesn’t look alarmed. Just a bit surprised.
We freeze there, staring at each other, the moment suspended in an odd kind of stillness.
I still have no idea how I’m supposed to navigate this. Where the line is. What still belongs to us, and what no longer does.
Not because she’s… mentally confused a little, not just because of that. Because some part of me never stopped seeing her as mine.
I know we didn’t just hit a pause for six years. I know it doesn’t work like that. So it’s definitely inappropriate for me to just show up in her room like this. But I used to do this even before we got together, so I can basically blame it on my personality and old habits.