She woke to the absence of his arm.
The space beside her was still warm, the indent of his body pressed into the sheets, and she reached for it without thinking—palm flat against the cooling fabric, fingers curling like she could hold the shape of him a little longer.
Morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and milky, the kind of light that made everything look softer than it was. She lay there a moment, letting the room come into focus. The fireplace was cold. The glass of water on the nightstand untouched. Her wrapped hand rested against her chest, the bandage clean and tight, and she remembered his fingers working over it last night, slow and careful, like he was stitching something more than skin.
She sat up. The shirt she wore hung loose on her shoulders—his shirt, black, the top two buttons undone, the collar carrying a scent that had become familiar in a way that made her chest ache. Her shorts were her own, frayed at the hem, and her feet were bare against the hardwood as she swung them over the edge of the bed.
The house was awake. She could hear it—muffled voices, the clink of ceramic, the low roll of laughter from somewhere downstairs. It sounded warm. Normal. The kind of sound that belonged to a different kind of morning.
She stood. Her legs felt heavy, not from exhaustion but from the weight of everything she carried into this day. The vision was still there, pressed behind her eyes like a photograph developing in reverse—Nash on the ground, his neck bent wrong, his eyes open and empty. She blinked and it didn't go away. It never went away anymore.
She padded to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway.
The air downstairs smelled like coffee and something baking—cinnamon, maybe, or nutmeg, warm and domestic and almost cruel in its normalcy. She followed the sound of voices, her bare feet whispering against the wood, and when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped.
The living room was full.
Nami was curled into the corner of the large leather couch, a mug cradled between her palms, her hair loose and her laugh soft as she said something to Sierra, who sat cross-legged on the opposite end, gesturing with a spoon. Grace was in the armchair near the fire, her legs tucked under her, a book open on her lap that she wasn't reading because she was looking at Nash instead. Nash stood by the mantel, one hand resting on the stone, his posture easy, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he said something that made Grace roll her eyes.
Nic was at the sideboard, pouring himself a cup of coffee with the practiced calm of a man who had hosted a hundred mornings like this. Adrian leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed, watching the room with the quiet attention of someone who noticed everything and commented on almost nothing. Kiaan sat on the ottoman near Sierra, his elbows on his knees, his voice low as he teased her about something that made her flick a crumb at him. Cole was sprawled on the floor, back against the couch, phone in hand, laughing at something on the screen.
Lily was on the chaise near the window, a throw pillow hugged to her chest, her strawberry-blond hair catching the light as she listened to whatever Cole was showing her.
It was a room full of people. A room full of warmth. A room where Navira should have felt safe.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
Because Nash was standing by the mantel, alive and smiling, his hand brushing Grace's shoulder as she passed him a laugh, and in her chest the vision unspooled again—his neck, his eyes, the field, the silence—and she couldn't breathe.
"Hey."
The voice came from her left, low and familiar, and she turned to find Reyen standing at the edge of the kitchen doorway, a coffee mug in each hand. He was already dressed—dark sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his hair still slightly damp from a shower she hadn't heard him take. His eyes found hers, and something in his face shifted immediately, like he could see the crack she was trying to hide.
"You're up," he said, softer now, stepping closer. He pressed one of the mugs into her hands, and the heat of it seeped through the ceramic, grounding her. "Drink."
She brought it to her lips without thinking. The coffee was black, no sugar, exactly how she'd been taking it since she started staying here, and she wondered when he'd learned that. When he'd started remembering the small things.
She took a sip. Then another. The warmth spread through her chest, but it didn't reach the cold thing living behind her ribs.
"Navira." His voice dropped, meant only for her, and she looked up at him. "You okay?"
She wanted to say yes. She wanted to nod and smile and walk into that room full of people and pretend she was just a girl who'd had a good night's sleep in her boyfriend's house. But Nash laughed at something Grace whispered, and the sound of it hit her like a blade between the ribs, because she could hear it—the exact same laugh she'd heard in her vision, right before the vampire came.
"Fine," she said. The lie tasted like metal. "Just tired."
Reyen's jaw tightened. He didn't believe her. She could see it in the way his eyes held hers a beat too long, in the way his hand brushed her elbow as he stepped aside to let her pass. But he didn't push. Not here, not in front of everyone.
She walked into the living room.
Nami looked up first, and her face softened into something warm and knowing. "There she is. I was starting to think you'd sleep through the whole morning."
"Barely," Navira said, and the word came out steady enough that she almost believed it herself. She crossed to the empty space on the couch near Nami and sank into it, the coffee still warm between her palms. "What's everyone doing here?"
"Full moon event," Sierra said, leaning forward, her eyes bright. "The bar on Main Street is doing that whole thing—drinks, music, the market stretches into the square. It's tonight."
"Everyone's going," Cole added, not looking up from his phone. "Lily's already made a group chat about outfit coordination."
Lily tossed the pillow at him. "I did not. I made a group chat about arrival times. There's a difference."
"There really isn't," Cole said, and caught the pillow when she threw it again.
Navira smiled. It felt like a mask held on by spit and hope.
"You should come," Grace said, and Navira looked up to find her watching from the armchair, her book closed now, her expression open and easy. "It's always fun. Bonfire, live music, the whole town shows up."
"She'll be there," Nami said, before Navira could answer. "Right?"
Navira looked at Nami. There was something in her friend's eyes—a question, a check-in, a reminder that she knew. She knew about the plan, about the tomb, about the weight Navira was carrying. And she was offering an out without saying a word.
"Yeah," Navira said. "I'll be there."
Grace smiled, satisfied, and turned back to Nash. "Are you coming?"
Nash pushed off from the mantel, his hand finding hers, their fingers lacing together like they'd been doing it for years instead of weeks. "I said I would, didn't I?"
"You said you'd think about it."
"Well, now I'm saying I'll be there." He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, casual and easy, and Grace's cheeks flushed pink in a way that made half the room groan.
"Get a room," Adrian muttered, but there was no heat in it.
"We're in a room," Nash said, grinning. "It's called the living room. Very living. Lots of room."
Cole threw the pillow back at him.
Navira watched them. Her brother, happy and alive and holding the hand of a girl who looked at him like he was the best part of her day. And behind her eyes, the vision played again—his body on the ground, the life already gone from his face, the field silent and cold.
She lifted the mug and drank, letting the coffee burn her tongue, letting the pain anchor her to the present.
Reyen moved behind the couch. His hand brushed the back of her neck, light and brief, but she felt it everywhere—the warmth of his palm, the weight of his attention, the silent promise that he was watching, that he knew something was wrong, that he wasn't going to let her drown alone.
She didn't turn around. She couldn't. If she looked at him, she would break.
"What time does the event start?" she asked, and her voice came out even, almost normal.
"Seven," Sierra said. "But the market opens earlier. Nami and I were thinking of heading down around five to browse before the crowd shows up."
"I'm in," Lily said. "I need candles. The ones I bought last month are almost gone."
"You burn through candles like I burn through coffee," Cole said.
"That's because my apartment is cozy and yours is a cave."
"It's minimalist."
"It's a cave, Cole."
The room laughed. Navira laughed with them, the sound hollow in her own ears, but no one seemed to notice. She drank more coffee. She watched Nash lean down to murmur something to Grace, watched her smile, watched the way his thumb traced circles on the back of her hand.
She was going to lose him.
The thought hit her like a physical blow, cold and sharp, and she set the mug down before her hands could tremble. The ceramic clinked against the wood of the side table, louder than she meant it to, and she felt several pairs of eyes glance her way.
"You okay?" Nami asked, soft enough that only Navira heard.
Navira met her gaze. Nami's eyes were steady, knowing, patient. She was offering a door, a moment, a chance to step away and say what she couldn't say in front of the others.
But what was there to say? My brother is going to die tonight and I've seen it and I don't know how to stop it? Not here. Not with Grace three feet away, not with Lily and Cole laughing about candle budgets, not with the morning still stretching ahead of them, full of ordinary light.
"I'm fine," Navira said. "Just need more coffee."
She stood. The room continued around her—Sierra teasing Kiaan, Adrian rolling his eyes at Cole, Nic refilling his cup with the quiet grace of a man who had hosted a thousand mornings. Normal. Warm. Alive.
She walked toward the kitchen, and she felt Nash's eyes follow her.
She didn't turn around.
The kitchen was empty, the back door open to the garden, where cold air drifted in and carried the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. She set her mug on the counter and gripped the edge of the sink, her head bowed, her breath coming slow and deliberate.
One breath. Two. The vision didn't fade.
Footsteps behind her. Soft. Deliberate.
"Navira."
She closed her eyes. Nash's voice, low and careful, without the easy humor he'd carried in the living room.
"I'm fine," she said.
"You're lying."
She turned. He stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his head tilted in that way he had when he was trying to read her—older brother mode, the one that meant he wasn't going to let this go.
"You've been standing at the sink for thirty seconds," he said. "You didn't pour any coffee."
She looked down at her empty hands. He was right.
Nash stepped closer, his voice dropping. "What's going on?"
She wanted to tell him. The words were right there, stacked behind her teeth—I saw you die, I saw a vampire break your neck, I saw your eyes go still, and I don't know how to stop it, and you're going to the full moon event tonight, and Grace is going to watch you fall, and I can't—
She couldn't.
"Nothing," she said. "I'm just tired."
His face softened. He reached out and pulled her into a hug—sudden and warm and familiar, the kind of hug he'd been giving her since they were kids, the kind that said I've got you without needing words.
"I know," he said, his voice muffled against her hair. "I know. You don't have to pretend to be okay all the time."
She pressed her face into his shoulder and breathed. He smelled like soap and the faint spice of whatever cologne he wore, and he was solid and warm and alive, and she was going to lose him, she was going to lose him, she was going to—
She pulled back before the tears could come.
"I'm okay," she said, and this time it sounded almost true. "I just—I need a minute."
He studied her face, his brow furrowed, but he nodded. "Take your time. I'll keep them occupied."
She managed a smile. It was small and fragile, but it was real enough that he seemed to accept it. He squeezed her shoulder once, then turned and walked back into the living room.
The moment he was gone, her smile collapsed.
She turned back to the sink and gripped the edge again, her knuckles white, her breath shaking in her chest. Outside, the garden was still and quiet, the trees bare, the sky a pale autumn blue that looked nothing like the gray of her vision.
She had to stop it. She had to find a way.
But the vision had never been wrong before. Every death she'd seen in those fractured flashes had come true—every single one. And the last image, the one that burned behind her eyelids every time she blinked, was Nash on the ground in a field, a vampire standing over him, his eyes already empty.
She didn't know who the vampire was.
She didn't know when.
She only knew it was tonight. The full moon. The event.
A hand settled on her lower back, warm and familiar, and she didn't startle. She knew the weight of that touch by now.
"He's going to be okay," Reyen said quietly.
She shook her head. "You don't know that."
"I know that you'll do everything in your power to make sure he is." He stepped closer, his hand sliding around her waist, pulling her gently back against his chest. "And I know you're not doing this alone."
She let herself lean into him, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the solid warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat that only beat for her.
"I saw it," she whispered. "I saw him die."
Reyen's arm tightened around her. "Then we make sure it doesn't happen."
"How?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he pressed a kiss to her temple and said, "Together."
She closed her eyes. The vision played again—Nash's body, the field, the silence—and she let it. She let it burn through her, every detail, every second of it, until she had memorized every angle of the nightmare.
And then she opened her eyes.
"Okay," she said. "Together."