Benji didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just let her words settle into his skin like smoke—slow, thick, inescapable.

If you ruin this, I will haunt you.

God, she didn’t even have to try. Every sentence she breathed was poetry wrapped in warning, sweet and sharp like bourbon poured over broken glass.

And he wanted every inch of it.

His gaze never left hers, not even as she leaned in, that smirk twisting her lips like a match being struck. His breath caught—just once—and then came back with a slow, chest-deep exhale. Not out of fear. Out of reverence.

Out of the overwhelming ache of knowing exactly how close he was to falling all the way in.

“You already do,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a line.

It was the goddamn truth.

Heather Goodwin had shown up at his door like a reckoning in glitter and shadows, and now she was curled up on his couch like she belonged there. Like the storm inside her had finally found its match.

Benji leaned in too—not to kiss her this time, but to meet the space where her breath touched his. Close enough to share air. Close enough to feel the moment tremble.

“I wasn’t scared of ghosts before you,” he said, voice low and steady, like a vow. “But if losing this is what haunts me…”

He brushed a knuckle under her chin, gentle and grounding.

“…then I’ll take the curse.”

Then, with a grin that cut the tension without breaking the gravity of it, he added:

“Besides, if I’m gonna be haunted, I want it to be by the hottest girl who ever threatened me with Oreos and existential dread.”

He picked up her half-eaten cookie, took a bite, and met her eyes with a flicker of challenge.

“Now shut up and watch this terrible movie with me. You already made me feel things—don’t make me miss the part where the killer gets stabbed with a lawn flamingo.”

Because he’d fight for her. Fall for her. Burn with her.

But right now?

Right now, she was here. She was his.

And that was enough to keep the ghosts at bay.

Heather didn’t speak.

Not right away.

Mostly because her brain short-circuited somewhere between “you already do” and “I’ll take the curse.”

Because… what the hell?

What was she supposed to do with that?

No one—no one—had ever said things like that to her and meant them. Not behind a smirk or a flirt or a dare. But soft. Solid. Like something you etched into bone instead of carving into the surface.

Benji wasn’t just some Shadyside bad boy with a trailer and a record collection. He was ruinously sincere in a way that cracked something open in her. The worst part? She liked it. Loved it. Drank it down like it was the last honest thing in the world.

And then—

The bastard stole her cookie.

Her half-eaten, claimed-by-lipstick, definitively hers cookie.

Heather blinked.

She should’ve slapped his hand away. Should’ve leveled him with a look that scorched the room. But instead?

She stared at him—at the smug glint in his eyes, at the curl of his grin—and something in her chest actually fluttered.

God help her, she let him.

Let him.

Even when he told her to shut up.

No one got away with that. Not in Sunnyvale. Not in her orbit. But with Benji? It wasn’t demeaning. It wasn’t dismissive. It was teasing and grounding and—annoyingly—kind of hot.

She let out a scoff. Light. Breathless. Half-laugh, half-surrender.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, curling into his side before she could second-guess it.

His arm wrapped around her without hesitation—like his body had been waiting for the cue. Like this had always been the plan. And maybe, somehow, it had been.

Heather let her head rest against his shoulder, warm and steady. Her hand drifted to his, lacing their fingers together, and when she found the scar again—rough and permanent and honest—she traced it with her thumb like it was sacred.

No words.

Just that.

A tether between what he’d lived through and who he’d become.

The movie played on—some grainy horror flick with zero budget and even less logic—and she let herself fall into the rhythm of it. His heartbeat against her back. The static from the old TV. The smell of sugar and warmth and boy.

Onscreen, the heroine screamed, wielding a ridiculous plastic lawn flamingo like it was Excalibur.

Heather arched a brow. “She’s holding it upside down,” she muttered. “Amateur.”

Benji chuckled, low and close.

And for once, Heather didn’t feel like she had to prove anything. Not be the smartest. Not the prettiest. Not the most in control.

She could just be.

Here. With him.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Because she didn’t want to run.

She wanted more.

Benji didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe at first.

Because holy shit, Heather Goodwin was curled into his side like it was allowed. Like it was easy. Like he hadn’t spent the last few months convincing himself that this—her—was something he wasn’t allowed to want.

And now? Now her fingers were tracing the scar on his hand like it was hers, and he felt like a live wire under her touch.

He stared straight ahead at the dumbass movie, not seeing a single frame of it. Flamingo girl could be tap dancing with Satan himself, and he wouldn’t notice.

All he could feel was Heather. Her warmth. Her heartbeat. The subtle way she’d melted into him, like maybe she was finally, finally, done pretending she didn’t care.

He smiled, slow and quiet.

Because of course she noticed the lawn flamingo.

Of course she called it out.

He dipped his head toward hers, voice low. “You know, you could’ve just said you like bad horror movies and needed an excuse to get close.”

Her thumb paused on his scar.

And for a second—just a second—he wanted to tell her everything. About the night he got it. About the fight. About the fear. About the way he hadn’t let anyone touch that part of him since—not because it hurt, but because it meant something. Because he didn’t trust anyone not to treat it like a punchline.

But she hadn’t.

She’d just… held it. Touched it like it was part of him, not a flaw. Like it mattered.

He swallowed hard.

Then tilted his head so his mouth brushed her temple, voice softer now. “You’re lucky I’m the one falling, babe.”

A beat.

“Because I’m not gonna let you pretend like this doesn’t mean something.”

Not with her tucked against him like that.

Not with her hand in his like a promise.

He didn’t press for more.

Didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in forever, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like an empty thing. It felt like something beginning.

Heather could’ve said it.

Could’ve quipped that, yeah, maybe she liked terrible horror movies and violent lawn décor and emotionally available boys with good hands. That she’d orchestrated this whole thing—Oreos, whiskey, and proximity—just to get close.

And sure, she could’ve done that.

It would’ve been on-brand. Safe. A little smug, a little seductive. Classic Heather Goodwin misdirection.

But where was the fun in that?

She had more flair than that. Always had.

The truth was—she hadn’t planned this. Not this exactly. Not the ache in her ribs when he said falling. Not the way her thumb lingered over his scar like she’d known it before she touched it. Not the way her heart twisted when he said this means something and didn’t even flinch.

And the worst part? The most reckless, terrifying, and exhilarating part?

He was right.

It did mean something.

She wasn’t sure when it had started—somewhere between his first smart-ass comment in that haunted hallway and the night she dreamed his name like it could save her—but it was here now. Real. Heavy. Alive in her chest like a second heartbeat.

Heather Goodwin didn’t do real. She did sharp. She did show. She did power plays and precision.

But with Benji?

She felt seen. In the way no one had ever bothered to try.

Her fingers tightened around his. Not enough to hurt—just enough to say I hear you.

She was about to speak. To let it out, finally. All of it. The admission, the fear, the truth that had been clawing at her ribs for weeks.

And then—buzz.

Her phone lit up on the table. The name flashing across it in glowing, judgmental letters.

Brielle.

Sunnyvale royalty. A girl who still thought “wrong side of the tracks” was a punchline. A girl who would absolutely combust if she saw Heather here, curled up in a Shadyside trailer with a boy who called her babe like it meant something.

Heather stared at the screen. At everything it represented.

And then she silenced it.

No hesitation.

Just… done.

She turned back to Benji. His brow was furrowed slightly—concerned, but not insecure. He wasn’t asking. He was just waiting.

That was the difference.

So she exhaled.

“I didn’t come here to fall for you,” she said, voice low and clear, each word a decision. “I came here to drink and maybe kiss the hot guy who makes me feel things I don’t like admitting out loud.”

She turned fully toward him, eyes locked on his, heart loud and terrifying and steady.

“But I did. Fall. And I’m not sorry.”

A pause.

Then, softer, with none of the armor:

“I want this. You. All of it. Even the parts that scare me.”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Just let the moment settle between them, real and radiant.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she leaned in.

Not to prove a point. Not to seduce or distract. Just because she wanted to.

Because he was still looking at her like she was made of constellations and wildfire, and for once—she didn’t want to be worshipped. She just wanted to be wanted.

Her fingers found the edge of his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there like a spark. And then she kissed him.

Deep. Sure. Unapologetic.

It wasn’t a performance. It was a decision.

A claiming—not of him, but of herself. Of the girl who didn’t need a crown or a curated narrative to feel powerful. Just this boy. This couch. This night.

When she pulled back, breath uneven, her voice was barely more than a whisper against his lips.

“Still think I needed an excuse?”

Her smirk flickered. But this time, it wasn’t armor.

It was hope.

And she didn’t try to hide it.

Benji didn’t answer right away.

He couldn’t.

His breath had caught somewhere between her confession and the kiss that followed it—raw, reverent, realer than anything he’d ever been given. It wasn’t a show. It wasn’t a game. It was Heather Goodwin, finally herself, finally his, and every version of her felt like a miracle he hadn’t dared to wish for.

She kissed him like she was done running.
And he kissed her back like he was never letting her fall alone.

When she pulled away, when her voice trembled with truth and her smirk—that smirk—flickered with something softer, something unguarded… Benji knew he was in deeper than he’d ever been. And he didn’t care.

He didn’t need armor. He didn’t need a plan.
He just needed this.

He reached up, slow, deliberate, and cupped the side of her face like she was something precious and alive and a little bit dangerous. His thumb brushed her cheek, smudging a bit more lipstick, but she didn’t stop him. She just looked at him like she meant it—and Benji felt that look settle in his bones.

“Excuse?” he echoed, voice rough and breathless, like it had to fight its way out of his chest. “No. You didn’t need an excuse.”

A beat.

“You were always enough on your own.”

Another beat. Then—

“And just for the record…” He smiled, slow and certain, the kind that started in his chest and made its way all the way to his eyes. “I was never the dangerous one.”

He leaned in, not to kiss her again—not yet—but to press his forehead lightly against hers. Eyes closed. Steadying.

“You were.”

And somehow, that made him feel safer than he’d ever felt before.

Outside, the world could fall apart. The curse could claw its way back from the dirt. The past could rise up with all its secrets and scream her name.

But right now, in this trailer, on this half-sunk couch, with Heather Goodwin wrapped around him like a promise—

Benji Burroughs believed in something.

Not luck. Not fate.

Her.

He whispered it then, not as a declaration, not as a vow. Just as truth.

“I’m yours, Heather. No excuses.”

And for once, he wasn’t afraid.

Heather didn’t breathe for a second.

Couldn’t.

Because God, the way he looked at her—the way he said those things without flinching, without smirking, without shielding himself behind bravado—it knocked the air right out of her chest.

You were always enough on your own.

No one had ever said that to her before. Not without wanting something in return. Not without strings or standards or the expectation that she’d shapeshift to suit their needs.

But Benji wasn’t asking her to shrink.

He was choosing her—loud, messy, complicated her. Curse-shadowed and grief-slicked and still standing. And he was doing it like it was the easiest thing in the world.

She leaned into the heat of his hand on her cheek, lashes lowering as his thumb smudged more of her lipstick. He wasn’t careful with it, but he was careful with her.

And that? That was everything.

When his forehead pressed to hers, when he called her the dangerous one—Heather let herself smile. A real one. Small, unpolished, born from the soft ache of being seen.

“You say that like you’re not wrapped around me right now,” she whispered, teasing, but with no real bite behind it.

She could’ve said more. Could’ve tried to match his confession with some razor-edged quip or slow-burn sultriness, just to keep the power balanced.

But she didn’t want to.

Not right now.

Not when the moment was already perfect in its quiet unraveling.

Instead, she let the silence sit with them. Let it breathe.

And when he said I’m yours, something in her chest gave in. Not broke. Not shattered.

Unfolded.

Heather let out a long, slow breath. Like maybe—for once—she didn’t have to hold it all together.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes shining under the dim trailer lights.

“Then shut up and hold me,” she said, voice light but trembling, just a little. “Before I start crying and ruin my whole aesthetic.”

Benji didn’t hesitate.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her in until her cheek rested against his chest. His heart thudded steady beneath her ear, and she felt her own finally start to slow its sprint.

The TV flickered with low-budget blood and absurd one-liners, and Heather let herself sink into the warmth of his body, the comfort of the couch, the safety of this impossible, undeserved night.

And somewhere between the flamingo scene and the villain’s dramatic monologue—

She fell asleep.

Wrapped in Benji’s arms.

Still wearing red lipstick and secrets.

But dreaming, for once, of something better than survival.
Something that maybe—just maybe—looked a little like love.

Benji didn’t move.

Not when her breath ghosted against his collarbone. Not when her fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt like she was anchoring herself. Not even when the credits rolled and the TV defaulted to static—white noise buzzing like background to the kind of peace he never thought he’d earn.

Because this?

This was everything.

Heather Goodwin—the storm, the spark, the girl who carried grief in her spine and wore defiance like perfume—had fallen asleep in his arms. And he wasn’t about to let the moment slip through his fingers.

She was soft now. Not weak—never weak—but soft. Like something sacred had been carved out of the chaos just for this. Just for her. Just for them.

Benji adjusted slightly, careful not to wake her, and pulled the old quilt from the back of the couch. He draped it over them both, tucking her in like it meant something. Because it did.

His fingers brushed her hair once—just once—and he let them linger a moment longer than necessary. It was a quiet reverence. A thank you whispered into the dark.

For trusting him.
For choosing this.
For staying.

He leaned back, head resting against the couch cushion, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might hold the answers to all the shit waiting for them outside this trailer. The curse. The blood. The secrets she hadn’t told him yet but that he already knew were there, waiting to tear through the quiet.

But for now?

They had silence.
And breath.
And each other.

Benji let his eyes drift closed, one hand resting gently on her back, rising and falling with the rhythm of her sleep.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember,
he didn’t dream of running.

He dreamt of her.

She woke slowly.

Not with a jolt, not with panic, not with the ache of another nightmare biting at the edges of her sleep. Just warmth. A steady rise and fall beneath her cheek. The low hum of static. The faint scent of flannel and sugar and boy.

Benji.

Her lashes fluttered open.

The trailer was still half-draped in morning shadows, golden light peeking in through blinds that hadn’t been closed all the way. She was tangled in a blanket that didn’t smell like her perfume. Her lipstick was probably a war crime by now. And yet—

She’d never felt safer.

Heather exhaled slowly, barely shifting, just enough to clock the position: her leg hooked over his, her fingers still clutching his shirt like she hadn’t let go all night. She hadn’t even realized she’d done that.

God, Heather. Get a grip.

Still… her heart didn’t race like it usually did when the sun came up and reality crept in. It just beat. Steady. Soft.

She turned her face slightly into his chest, let herself stay there one second longer, and then reached blindly for her phone.

One new message from Brielle. She didn’t open it.

Instead, she texted Alice Mae:

> alive
not kidnapped
don’t send a search party
actually… don’t ask questions
i’m okay
…more than okay



She stared at the screen for a beat longer than she meant to.

Then she slipped the phone back onto the coffee table and started to ease herself out from under Benji’s arm with the practiced grace of a girl who’s done the morning-after vanishing act a few too many times.

But she hadn’t even made it to vertical before his voice cut through the quiet, rough and half-asleep:

“Where you goin’, babe?”

Heather froze.

Damn it.

She glanced over her shoulder. His hair was a mess. His eyes still heavy. He looked good in the kind of way that made her stomach flip—effortless, undone, hers.

So she smirked, mouth dry, throat catching around the lump that had no business being there.

“Relax,” she murmured. “I was gonna spare you the horror of seeing me like this. Bedhead, morning breath, and all.”

A beat.

“But if you must suffer, I guess I can stay.”

And deep down?

She wanted to.

God help her, she wanted to.

Benji blinked slowly, eyes still hazy with sleep, lashes heavy and soft. The early light cut across his cheekbones, catching in the tangle of his curls, and for a second he just stared at her—like waking up next to her was something he never thought he’d earn, and now that it was real, he didn’t want to breathe too hard and scare it away.

She was trying to slip out like a ghost. Soft-footed and guilty. But he’d felt the shift. The moment her warmth began to pull away from his chest, his body noticed—and so did his heart.

So he’d said the first thing that slipped past his lips. Honest. Raw. Sleep-heavy.

“Where you goin’, babe?”

And now she was smirking. Half-deflecting, half-daring him to call her bluff. God, she was so her even in the morning—bedhead and sarcasm and that steel-sweet glint in her eye like she was ready to bolt but hoping someone might ask her to stay.

He pushed up on one elbow, blanket slipping off his shoulder, hair a wreck, eyes still half-lidded as he looked at her. Tired, warm, wrecked in the best way.

“Okay,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep. “You can go.”

A pause. He reached out, fingers brushing her knee like an anchor—not a tether, not a trap. Just contact.

“But you gotta text me when you get home. Even if home’s not where you wanna be.”

Another beat.

Then, with the softest grin—one that didn’t ask her for anything she wasn’t ready to give—he added:

“I worry. Deal with it.”

And that was it. No pressure. No guilt. Just Benji Burroughs, half-awake and wholly hers, giving her the choice without making her feel like she had to run from it.

He dropped his hand again, laid back into the couch, and closed his eyes.

But not before he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear:

“…you looked good last night. But you look better like this.”

Because it wasn’t about makeup or masks.
It was about her. Always had been.

And if she stayed, if she crawled back into his arms?

Well—he’d already made room.

You can go.

The words sliced through her.

Quick. Clean. Brutal.

For one split, searing second, the fire in her chest surged—rage licking at her ribs before she could stop it. Of course. He’d gotten what he wanted. The kiss. The night. The girl. And now he was done. Just like the rest of them.

She almost stood. Almost threw the blanket off like it didn’t matter and muttered something cold and final—because Heather Goodwin never begged to stay.

But then his hand brushed her knee.

Light. Steady. Present.

Not possessive. Not pleading. Just… there.

His voice followed—gentle, not dismissive. That soft, gravel-rough murmur that always knocked her off-balance in the worst and best way.

"But you gotta text me when you get home. Even if home’s not where you wanna be.”

Something in her chest cracked wide open.

And when he said I worry. Deal with it—Heather felt the anger dissolve, replaced by something so much worse. Something tender. Unbearable.

Because he wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t trying to keep her, trap her, twist her into a version he could show off.

He just cared.

And damn it, he didn’t even have to try to be handsome. Messy curls, lazy grin, voice all sleepy and warm—he looked like sin wrapped in comfort, and if Sunnyvale couldn’t see it, they were blind. Or stupid. Or both.

She saw it.

And that? That was the problem.

She turned her head toward the trailer door. The morning light caught on the edge of it, and for a second, it looked like a split path—two lives standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting for her to pick.

She could walk out. Go back to being Heather Goodwin™—Sunnyvale’s sharpest secret, the girl with the perfect smile and the bloodline no one could ever know. She could lie, again. Pretend this meant nothing.

Or…

She could stay.

Stay in the mess. In the truth. In him.

Even if the aftermath would be a slow-motion catastrophe. Even if people talked. Even if her father’s voice was already screaming in her head.

Heather looked back at Benji. Really looked.

And that was that.

She stalked across the small space in two steps, swung one leg over his hips, and straddled his lap without a word. His eyes opened immediately—still hazy, but curious now, tracking her every move.

She smirked, letting her fingers trail up his chest, slow and teasing, as she leaned in just enough for her hair to brush his cheek.

“Rise and shine, Burroughs. I figured if I’m already ruining my reputation, I might as well do it thoroughly.”

A beat. Her lips curved wickedly.

“So… do I get breakfast before or after you pretend not to be obsessed with me?”