They didn't speak for the first hour on the road.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires like bones, and the trees on either side blurred past like ghosts too fast to hold onto. Eli drove with both hands on the wheel, eyes forward, jaw locked. His knuckles white against the black leather. There was tension in his shoulders like he was bracing for something, though he didn't know what.
Ava sat in the back seat, leaning slightly forward, her eyes fixed on the back of Em's head like she was afraid if she blinked, she'd vanish again.
And Em?
Em just stared out the window like she was still somewhere else entirely.
Like she hadn't come back yet.
Ava finally broke the silence.
Her voice was soft, not quite a whisper, but not enough to disturb whatever fragile balance had settled between them.
"Where are we going?"
Em didn't turn around. "Someplace with answers."
Ava exhaled slowly through her nose, like she wanted to argue but didn't have the strength to anymore. "Could you be a little more cryptic, or are you saving that for part two?"
Em's lips quirked, just barely. "Still funny. That's nice."
But the tension didn't break.
If anything, it pressed in closer.
The car turned off the main road about thirty minutes later, wheels grinding over a narrow path that looked like it hadn't been used in years. Trees closed in, thick and tall, the kind that held onto silence like a secret.
Eli glanced at the rearview mirror. "You're sure about this place?"
Em nodded once. "It's where everything loops back."
That wasn't really an answer, but it was all they were getting.
So they didn't ask again.
The cabin looked like it had been carved out of the woods by hand.
Half-rotted porch. Sagging roof. The kind of place that held its breath when people approached, like it wasn't sure if it still wanted company.
Ava stepped out of the car slowly, the air colder than she expected. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, eyes scanning the shadows that clung to the edges of the trees.
Em moved ahead of them without a word, pushing the door open with a shoulder like she'd done it a hundred times.
It creaked, groaned—then gave.
Dust spiraled in the afternoon light as they stepped inside.
And suddenly, Ava couldn't breathe.
Because she knew this place.
Not clearly. Not fully.
But something in her bones remembered.
A flash of laughter. A sliver of sunlight through broken blinds. The sharp smell of old wood and rain-soaked leaves.
This was where they'd been.
That summer.
Before everything fell apart.
Before the lines blurred and their choices started to rot from the inside.
Em dropped her bag on the table, then turned slowly, her eyes settling on Ava like she was waiting for the realization to click.
It did.
And Ava hated how fast the ache came.
"You brought us back here?" she asked, her voice shaking just enough to feel real. "Why?"
"Because it's where we stopped pretending," Em said.
She looked exhausted. Not physically—but emotionally. Like holding everything in for this long had scraped her hollow.
"I thought maybe we needed to remember who we were. Before."
Ava's laugh came out bitter. "Before what? Before they ruined everything, or before we did?"
Em didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Because the silence that followed was already loud enough.
Eli walked the perimeter of the room, eyes tracing the walls, the windows, the corners. Always scanning. Always alert.
He wasn't built for soft things, Ava realized. He was built for pressure. For knowing when to step in, when to stay back, when to carry weight that wasn't his.
And right now, he was carrying both of them.
She hated that it made her feel safer.
Later, they sat around the old kitchen table with a single lantern throwing shadows across the floor. The sun had dipped below the trees, and the quiet outside felt too complete.
Too final.
Em spread a map across the table—creased, smudged with old coffee rings and pencil marks.
"This," she said, tapping a point near the top right corner, "is where the signals went dark."
Ava leaned closer. "You mean the ones you were tracking?"
Em nodded. "They were following patterns. Carefully. Almost like they wanted me to see them. But then two months ago, they just... vanished."
Eli frowned. "That feels like a trap."
"It probably is."
But Em didn't sound afraid.
Just tired of running from things that didn't care if she ran or not.
They talked for hours after that.
About names. Locations. The way people disappeared just before they became inconvenient. About how long Em had been digging. About the messages she thought she was intercepting. How most people didn't even realize they were part of something bigger.
How the scariest part wasn't the system itself—it was how easy it was to forget it existed at all.
But under all of that, Ava could feel it.
The pull.
The gravity between them.
The thing they'd buried under trauma and guilt and half-truths.
Every time their eyes met across the table, it buzzed.
Unspoken. Unresolved.
Alive.
When the fire burned low and the silence wrapped around them again, Ava stood, moving toward the doorway to the small back room.
The one with the peeling wallpaper and the memory of soft touches.
She didn't look back when she spoke.
But her voice didn't waver either.
"You staying out here all night?"
Em didn't answer right away.
Then she rose too.
And followed.
The door shut softly behind them.
And for the first time in a long time…
It didn't feel like running.
It felt like returning.
The door clicked softly shut behind Em, but the sound felt louder than it should've. Maybe because the room was holding its breath.
Ava sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, fingers laced tight like she was trying to keep herself from flying apart. The lamplight cast slow shadows across her face, catching on the curve of her jaw, the tired pull of her eyes.
Em didn't speak at first.
She just stood there, watching her like she wasn't sure if Ava would let her stay… or ask her to leave.
"You came," Ava said, without looking up.
Three words.
Small. Quiet.
But heavy in the kind of way that settled in your chest and stayed there.
Em stepped forward, her boots brushing against the worn wooden floor.
"You left the door open," she said.
Ava huffed a soft laugh, but it sounded like it hurt. "Didn't mean to."
Em sat beside her, not too close, not too far. Just… enough. They stayed like that for a long beat, shoulders barely brushing, the silence between them thick with things they weren't saying.
And then Ava asked the thing she'd been swallowing all day.
"Why did you stop writing?"
Em's hands curled in her lap. "Because I didn't know how to lie to you."
Ava turned toward her, slowly, brows furrowed.
"I never asked you to lie."
"No," Em said, voice raw. "But if I told you the truth… you would've followed me. And I wasn't gonna let that happen. Not again."
Ava blinked at her, and for a second, the anger rose—sharp, hot, familiar. But it cracked just as quickly as it came, because under it… was grief. And it hadn't gone anywhere.
"You think disappearing was better?" she asked, voice quiet but edged.
"I thought disappearing might save you."
"You don't get to decide that, Em."
"I had to decide that," Em snapped back, the words rising from somewhere she'd been keeping locked up. "Because I was the one pulling you down with me. And I couldn't stand the thought of you drowning for something you didn't even choose."
Ava shook her head. "You idiot."
Em blinked.
"You absolute idiot," Ava said again, biting the inside of her cheek as her voice cracked. "I didn't need you to save me. I needed you to stay. That's all I ever wanted."
And just like that—Em broke.
Her face crumpled, shoulders falling forward, and she buried her hands in her hair like she could hold herself together if she just gripped tight enough.
"I didn't know how to stay," she whispered. "Not when I was falling apart."
"You could've let me fall with you."
"I didn't want to break you too."
A beat of silence.
Then Ava leaned over, just a little, just enough, and rested her head against Em's shoulder.
"You don't get to protect me from myself, Em. That was never your job."
Another pause. The kind that wrapped around the bones.
"I wanted to choose you," Ava said. "Even in the mess. Especially in the mess."
Em let out a shaky breath. "You still do?"
The question hung in the air.
Soft. Unsteady.
But honest.
And Ava didn't flinch.
She turned her face up, her cheek brushing Em's arm, and met her eyes—eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and still wanted more.
"I don't know how to stop."
They didn't kiss at first.
They just looked.
Like seeing each other for the first time again.
Like recognizing something they'd forgotten they were allowed to want.
When Em finally reached up, her fingers traced the side of Ava's face like she wasn't sure she was allowed to touch—like Ava might vanish again if she moved too fast.
But Ava leaned into it.
Let herself fall.
And when their lips met… it wasn't a spark.
It was a quiet ache.
The kind that's been building for years.
Slow and full and heavy with everything they'd never said.
It wasn't perfect.
There were moments when Em hesitated—when her hands stilled or her breath caught like she was afraid she didn't know how to be soft anymore.
And Ava…
Ava trembled.
Not from fear, but from the sheer weight of it. The realization that she'd been holding space for this—for her—even when she didn't know it.
There was no rush.
No hunger to consume.
Just… time.
And the slow, deliberate way they let themselves be seen again.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the quiet.
Sheets kicked off, skin warm, breath syncing like it had always known how.
The window was cracked just enough to let in the sound of crickets and wind brushing through old trees. Somewhere far off, a branch creaked, and the cabin groaned like it was settling around them.
Em was on her back, one hand behind her head, the other resting over her stomach like she wasn't sure what to do with it.
Ava curled in beside her, fingers idly tracing a slow line along her ribs.
"You okay?" she murmured.
Em nodded, eyes on the ceiling. "Yeah."
"Liar."
Another pause.
Then a smile ghosted across her lips.
"I'm scared," Em admitted. "It feels like if I let myself be happy, something's gonna come rip it away."
Ava nodded against her shoulder. "Yeah. Same."
They lay in that confession like it was a blanket. Frayed but warm.
"But maybe," Ava said after a while, "we stop waiting for the bad thing. Just for tonight."
Em turned toward her then, tucking a strand of hair behind Ava's ear.
Her voice was low. Steady.
"I can do tonight."
Ava leaned in. "Good."
And when she kissed her again, it was soft.
Not desperate.
Not rushed.
Just enough.
Like maybe they had more than just tonight after all.