#garwin

III. AP Lit

Monday morning sunlight filtered in through the tall, arched windows of the AP Literature lecture hall, catching on the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

The room smelled faintly of old books and chalk, a blend that always carried the weight of academia—though Reid, apparently, couldn’t have cared less.

Ironically, you had been assigned a seat right next to him, the fate of landing squarely beside Reid Garwin, trouble incarnate in a studded bracelet and a lazy grin.

From the moment you sat down, he’d been quietly talking your ear off—leaning back in his chair, passing folded scraps of notebook paper across your shared desk space, his pencil tapping absently like the lesson was background noise to your conversation.

You tried to keep your gaze on your notes, though your mind kept replaying the weekend.

Saturday’s lunch had been at a casual little bistro tucked on the corner of Main Street, the kind of place with mismatched chairs and hand-written specials on a chalkboard.

He’d ordered without hesitation, like he’d been there a hundred times before, and the food had been good—not just the food, but the company.

Over iced tea and sandwiches, you'd talked again, the conversation meandering easily from light teasing to personal tidbits you didn’t expect to share so soon.

Then Sunday afternoon, there’d been the knock on your dorm door.

Reid had stood there, hands in his pockets, a small bouquet of lavender and baby’s breath dangling from one wrist.

“Just checking if you’re settling in,” he’d said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You had been touched—the soft purple blooms still sat in a glass on your desk—but Kate’s warning about Reid’s reputation still hovered in the back of your mind like a whispered caution.

And now here you were, side by side, supposed to be analyzing prose.

Reid leaned in slightly, voice low, “You know, you look really good when you’re taking notes.”

You didn’t even glance up, just rolled your eyes and murmured, “You’d look good too if you actually took some.”

His brows lifted, a spark of amusement in his gaze, “Word?”

Before you could answer, he flipped to a blank page with exaggerated speed and snatched up his pencil like a man on a mission.

You let out a small, involuntary snort, shaking your head, “You’re impossible.”

The sound of your laugh—unguarded, genuine—made something light take root in his chest, a weightless kind of float that he wasn’t used to.

And the smile that followed… he wanted to see that again, no matter what it took.

The banter continued in low murmurs, Reid shameless in his flirting and now more emboldened after your Saturday together.

You tried to stay coy, keeping your tone neutral, but you caught yourself softening, more than once, at the way his eyes crinkled when he grinned or how his voice dipped when the teasing turned softer.

It wasn’t until Mr. Wyatt suddenly cleared his throat, sharp as a snapped twig, that you both looked up.

The teacher’s expression was bland, but his eyes glinted with challenge as he turned toward Reid.

“Mr. Garwin,” he said evenly, “since you seem to be having such a stimulating conversation, perhaps you could tell us in detail what the author’s treatment of isolation in the summer reading suggests about their broader worldview?”

You felt your stomach sink.

It was the kind of layered, open-ended question designed to corner anyone who hadn’t actually done the work.

But Reid just leaned back in his chair, as if this was no more taxing than deciding between black or cream in his coffee.

He began speaking—and not just speaking, but delivering a thorough, articulate, and almost irritatingly eloquent analysis.

He touched on symbolism, on historical context, even weaving in a quote with perfect recall.

And of course, he did it with that trademark smirk, like he knew exactly how good he sounded.

When he finished, Wyatt stood there for a beat, visibly caught off-guard before briskly returning to the lesson without another word.

You tilted your head toward Reid, your voice cool but your lips threatening to curve, “Nice save.”

“Thanks,” he said lightly, leaning in just enough for the words to feel like they belonged to you alone. “Told you. Beauty and brains.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as the bell rang and the room filled with the shuffle of papers and the low roar of conversation.

Students filed toward the door, the lecture hall gradually emptying.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and was halfway turned toward the exit when Reid’s voice stopped you.

“Hey... you should come to my swim meet after school.”

You arched a brow, pretending to consider, “Hmm. I don’t know… I might be busy.”

He grinned, shamelessly soaking in the playful resistance, “Come on, you’ll love it.”

You let the silence stretch for just a few more delicious seconds, then sighed in mock defeat, “Fine.”

“Good. Meet at three,” he said, that satisfied glint lighting his features again.

You gave a smooth little nod before turning toward the door, walking out without another word.

Reid watched you go, standing there a moment longer than he needed to, his grin softening into something unguarded.

Yeah.

He had it bad.

.

.

.

The scent of chlorine hit you as soon as you stepped into the humid air of the natatorium, the echo of splashes and muffled chatter bouncing off tiled walls.

You followed Kate and Sarah up the metal bleachers, your sneakers clanging against the steps until they settled near the middle—a good view of the pool and the locker room entrance.

Students milled around in clumps, parents chatted idly with thermoses of coffee in hand, and the rhythmic slap of water against the lane ropes gave the whole place a steady heartbeat.

Kate and Sarah didn’t waste a second.

“So,” Kate began, drawing out the word like she was winding up for a serve. “You and Reid have been awfully… present in each other’s lives lately.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing one leg over the other, “It’s strictly friendly.”

Sarah’s brows lifted in a way that said sure, and I’m the Queen of England, “Uh-huh. You mean like how Caleb and I are strictly friendly?”

You gave her a dry look, “Exactly.”

Kate shook her head, lips curved in disbelief, “Please. I caught you two at the bistro Saturday afternoon.”

“That was lunch,” you said, your voice even, though you could feel the heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“And Sunday,” Sarah added smoothly, “Caleb and I saw you guys leaving the store parking lot when we were pulling in.”

You leaned back, your tone prim, “Also professional.”

Neither girl bought it for a second.

Kate’s smirk turned wicked, “Professional, huh? Is that what we’re calling your new boy toy?”

You scoffed, about to protest—and then the locker room doors swung open.

The Ipswich boys led the way, and the rest of the swim team trailed behind them like a school of fish.

The warm, chlorine-thick air seemed to tilt for a moment, because there was Reid Garwin, looking like he’d been sculpted by the gods themselves and then dropped into a pair of tiny, low-slung swim trunks.

You felt your jaw threaten to unhinge.

Every muscle looked cut from sunlit marble, his skin glistening faintly under the fluorescent lights.

The sharp V of his hips disappeared into the black fabric, his abs— and yes, you were counting—could probably grate parmesan.

The smug, lazy grace in his stride only made it worse.

You weren't the superficial type.

You'd always valued a sharp wit and charm over a perfect body.

But sweet mercy, this man had both.

And you were staring.

Kate noticed first, biting back a laugh.

Sarah caught it next, elbowing Kate as if to say get a load of this.

And then—of course Reid himself caught you.

From across the pool deck, his gaze hooked into yours, slow and deliberate.

The corner of his mouth tipped upward into a knowing, utterly pleased smirk.

Kate leaned in, voice just loud enough for you to hear over the ambient noise, “You might want to wipe the drool from your lip, babe.”

You gasped in mock offense, smacking her arm playfully, “Fuck off.”

Kate only laughed, Sarah grinning beside her.

Down on the pool deck, Reid was still watching you, still wearing that smug little look like he’d just won something.

After that, the meet moved quickly, heats ticking by in a whirl of splashes, cheers, and the scent of chlorine that clung stubbornly to the humid air.

The Sons of Ipswich were, unsurprisingly, cleaning up—each one putting on their own kind of show in the water.

Reid, though, was last in the lineup.

The announcer called the final heat, and your gaze found him immediately.

He was already striding toward his lane, his walk slow, confident, and calculated.

He glanced across the pool, and when your eyes met, there was nothing casual about it.

That sharp, electric kind of look that made you feel like he was seeing everything at once.

He rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms as he lowered into the starting stance.

Even now, poised at the edge, he was still watching you.

The starter’s blank cracked through the air, and in one fluid motion, Reid and the rival swimmer dove forward, slicing into the water like a pair of silver arrows.

The boys from Ipswich shouted encouragement from the sidelines, their voices echoing off the tiled walls, but Reid’s style wasn’t just competitive—it was theatrical.

Each stroke was precise but almost lazy in its confidence, his body cutting through the water as if he had no doubt he’d be the first to the wall.

On the last length, you could've sworn you caught the faintest shimmer beneath the surface—nothing anyone else would notice.

By the time his hand slapped the wall, the gap between him and his opponent was almost comical.

The whistle blew, the crowd clapped and cheered, and Reid surfaced with a wide, smug grin.

Droplets rolled down his face, catching in his lashes before sliding down the strong line of his jaw.

His teammates clapped him on the back, voices tumbling over each other in praise as he hauled himself up out of the pool.

And then—naturally—he started walking straight toward you.

Kate leaned in without breaking her smile, “Don’t look now, but Loverboy’s inbound.”

You shot her a look but didn’t have time to reply before Reid was standing in front of the bleachers, utterly unfazed by the fact that he was dripping wet, his chest gleaming under the harsh lights.

He wore his usual self-satisfied smirk, like he’d just been waiting for this moment.

“Hey,” he said casually, as if you were bumping into each other in the quad instead of at the edge of a swim meet.

“Hey,” you replied, careful to keep your tone even.

You talked like it was nothing—like the heat rolling between wasn’t palpable enough for Kate and Sarah to exchange barely contained grins on either side of you.

You fought hard to maintain your composure, refusing to give him the full satisfaction of seeing you flustered, but your pulse had other ideas.

Eventually, Reid turned slightly, addressing all three.

“The boys are thinking about heading to Nicky’s once we’re done here,” his tone was easy, but his eyes flicked back to you almost immediately. “You in?”

Kate and Sarah perked up instantly, exchanging a quick, excited glance before nodding in unison.

Then Reid’s attention locked fully on you.

“And you?” he asked, voice pitched just a little lower, his expression telegraphing that your answer mattered more than anyone else’s.

You tilted your head, keeping your tone light but unreadable, “Maybe... we’ll see.”

His smirk deepened—not the cocky one from before, but something subtler, more intrigued.

“Hope I see you there,” he said, the words heavy with meaning before he finally turned away.

On his way back to rejoin the boys, he glanced over his shoulder more than once, catching your gaze each time before finally disappearing into the knot of teammates.

Kate and Sarah waited until he was gone before turning to you in perfect sync, eyes gleaming.

Kate leaned close, her voice a conspiratorial murmur, “If that was professional, then I’m a nun.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head—though the flutter in your chest told you Kate wasn’t entirely wrong.

.

.

VIII. Witch

The humid air of the natatorium clung to your skin, curling a few stray wisps of hair at your temples as you sat in the middle row of the bleachers, hands loosely clasped in your lap.

The steady echo of splashing water, whistles, and the deep baritone of the announcer reverberated around the space.

Your eyes tracked Reid effortlessly through the chaos—sleek in his swim cap and goggles, a streak of confidence cutting through the water like he owned it.

Which, honestly, he kind of did.

You clapped and called out his name when his fingertips smacked the wall first, but the cheer was faintly sluggish, like your voice was weighed down.

Still, you wore a small smile—one that was equal parts pride and quiet fondness.

Reid climbed out of the pool with that usual Garwin swagger, the grin already on his face before he’d even yanked his goggles down around his neck.

Teammates crowded him with pats to the back and shouts of “Nice one, man!” but his eyes were already scanning the bleachers for you.

When he finally padded over, droplets sliding down his shoulders and along the carved lines of his arms, you tilted your chin up to meet him.

“You were amazing,” you said warmly, leaning up to give him his victory kiss.

It lingered for just a beat longer than usual, your lips cool against his damp skin.

He smirked against your mouth, his tone immediately playful, “So… we celebrating tonight? Dinner? Movie?”

You chuckled softly but shook your head, the motion slow.

“I can’t. Major physics test tomorrow,” you looked at him from beneath your lashes, “But you can come over and hang if you want. I’ll just be buried in textbooks.”

Reid’s grin curved into something almost wicked as his mind went exactly where anyone who knew him would expect.

“Tiny pjs, hair up, glasses…” he made an appreciative sound under his breath. “Yeah, I could work with that.”

But then—mid-smirk—something tugged at his attention.

Your smile was still there, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Those eyes, rimmed faintly in red, seemed heavy, like every blink took effort.

Even the way you were sitting had that bone-deep weariness about it.

His thoughts flickered immediately back to that day at the library, to your offhand but haunted description of the screaming ghost-woman.

“Hey,” he said, voice dropping, his cocky edge dulling into genuine concern.

He reached out, his palm warm as it cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

“You feeling okay? You look… kinda beat.”

You tilted into his touch just a little, forcing another smile, the kind people wear when they want to ease someone else’s worry.

“I’m fine,” you said gently, your tone dismissive in a way that only made him more suspicious.

But before he could push, you were already standing, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

You rose on your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek, “I’ll see you tonight.”

He watched you weave through the small crowd, the faint sway of your hair and the shuffle of your steps somehow subdued.

The playful grin he’d been wearing had long faded, replaced by something heavier.

That sharp, inexplicable pang in his chest told him one thing—whatever was going on with you, it wasn’t just about lack of sleep.

.

.

.

Reid’s sneakers scuffed lazily against the path as he made his way across the quiet Spenser campus, the amber glow of the streetlamps cutting through the chill night air.

His phone was wedged between his shoulder and ear, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

“I’m telling you, Ty—something’s off with her,” he said, the usual cocky tilt in his voice dulled by a genuine thread of worry. “She’s not just tired, she’s… I dunno. Pale. Jumpier than usual. And I swear, I think those nightmares she told me about are still going on.”

On the other end, Tyler chuckled, the sound warm but teasing, “Or maybe you’re just noticing every little thing ‘cause you’re hopelessly in love with her.”

Reid rolled his eyes skyward, even though Tyler couldn’t see, “Oh my God. Really?”

“I’m just saying,” Tyler pressed, “why don’t you skip the whole broody concerned boyfriend routine and just ask her out already? I’ve literally never seen you give more than half a shit about any girl, man.”

“Yeah, well…” Reid’s smirk tugged back into place for a moment. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment. Ever think of that?”

“Uh-huh. Translation: you’re scared she’ll say no.”

Reid snorted and gave a mock sigh, the kind that said he was done with this conversation before Tyler could land another hit, “Whatever. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Good luck, lover boy,” Tyler said with an audible grin before hanging up.

Reid pocketed his phone just as he reached your dorm building, heading down the hall to your room.

He rapped his knuckles lightly against the door, leaning into it with a grin and a teasing lilt.

"Hey, princess, it's me,” he called.

Silence.

His brows furrowed slightly.

He knocked again, a little louder this time, “If you want... I’ll start serenading you... can’t promise I'll be good.”

Still nothing.

A third time, he tried—half expecting you to emerge sleepy and apologetic, maybe saying you'd been studying with headphones on.

But the silence was heavier this time, the kind that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“(y/n)?”

He wrapped his hand around the doorknob and gave it a tentative twist.

To his surprise, it turned easily.

The door creaked open, spilling the faint glow from the desk lamp across the room.

“(y/n)?” he called again, stepping inside cautiously.

Then he saw you.

Face down on the carpet, still as stone.

For a split second, his brain refused to process it—but then it slammed into him like a truck, and his eyes went wide.

“(y/n)!”

Fear snapped through him like an electric current as he dropped to his knees beside you, hands already reaching.

He slid one arm under your shoulders, the other beneath your head, and gently but frantically turned you over.

Your face was pale, your lashes trembling faintly against your cheeks.

“Hey—hey, no,” he murmured, his voice cracking as he gave you a light shake.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as though coaxing you back.

“C’mon, princess, wake up. Please.”

Slowly, mercifully, your eyelids fluttered.

You blinked at him hazily, confusion clouding your gaze for only a second before recognition dawned.

Without even thinking, you leaned into him, your forehead brushing his jaw.

Reid let out a shaky breath, his chest loosening just enough for his heart to beat again.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me,” he said, his voice low and still tight.

He didn’t let go of you as he stood, scooping you up effortlessly, your weight cradled against his chest.

Carrying you to the bed, he laid you down gently, crouching beside you so he could still keep a hand on your shoulder.

“What the hell happened?”

You swallowed, your voice hoarse.

“I got back here, and then… I saw her again. The banshee. She was just... there. And then…” you trailed off, shaking your head weakly. “Next thing I knew, I was waking up in your arms.”

Reid’s jaw tightened, protectiveness flaring hotter.

But before he could answer, your gaze shifted up to him, your eyes suddenly sharper—steadier.

“Reid,” you said, your voice low, serious in a way that made the space between feel heavier. “I’ve been taking another look at that witchcraft book I found in the library.”

The words hit him like a sucker punch, and his stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Your eyes didn’t waver.

“Tell me honestly… is there magic in Ipswich?”

The room felt unnaturally still, his pulse pounding in his ears.

And for the first time in a long time, Reid Garwin—always quick with a smirk, always ready with a line—had absolutely nothing to say.

“I—no, (y/n), there’s no—” he broke off, trying again with a weak laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Magic? In Ipswich? C’mon, babe, what is this, a Scooby-Doo episode? You’ve just been stressed. Exams, nightmares—your brain’s pulling overtime, that’s all.”

Your stare didn’t budge.

“Really? Then explain this—” you lifted a trembling hand, ticking off your points one by one, your voice rising, “—my nightmares getting worse every night, the way weird things keep happening whenever you and your friends are around, and that night at Nicky’s when Kent almost threw up on my shoes… I saw your eyes, Reid.”

The air seemed to thin.

Reid’s jaw twitched, but no words came out.

“They were black,” you pressed. “Like pitch. People’s eyes don’t just do that. And these night terrors of mine? They started right after that night.”

“I—” he stammered, shifting on his feet like a cornered animal. “It wasn’t—”

You suddenly pushed your upright, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

“Wasn’t what? Because unless you’ve got some killer contact lenses you forgot to tell me about, I’m not buying it,” your brows furrowed, heat in your voice now.

Reid instinctively took a step back, palms out like he was trying to cool you down, “Look, you’re tired, okay? You’ve been running on fumes—”

“Don’t,” you stood, following him across the small space. “Do you see where I’m going with this? Do you understand why I’ve been terrified to close my eyes every night? Because the second I do, that... thing comes for me? That horrible ghost!"

“(y/n)—”

Your frustration cracked, your voice sharp. “Just answer me, Reid! Come clean! Are you a witch?! A warlock?! Whatever you call it?”

The question hung in the air like a live wire, and he froze, every smartass remark on the tip of his tongue dying in his throat.

Finally, he let out a long, resigned breath.

“Yeah...I am.”

The words seemed to hollow the air between.

Even though you'd practically said it yourself moments ago, you still flinched, your eyes going glassy.

Your voice broke when you spoke, “What did I do? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Hey—no, no, no, no,” he said quickly, crossing the space in two strides.

His arms came around you before you could pull away, and to his relief, you didn’t fight him.

“I would never ever hurt you, baby. I couldn’t.”

His tone was stripped of its usual playfulness, leaving only firm, desperate sincerity.

He drew back just enough to cup your cheek, his forehead resting against yours.

Your tears slipped over his knuckles, warm against his cold skin.

“Then why?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why is all of this happening?”

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a beat, knowing there was no easy answer—and that whatever he said next could change everything.

Reid stayed there, your damp cheeks against his palms, his forehead still resting lightly to yours.

When he finally leaned back, there was no smirk, no teasing—just a steady, searching look.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, squeezing your hands and gently guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed.

He dropped down in front of you, forearms resting on his knees, eyes locked on yours.

“If I'm doing this, I'm doing it for real. No half-truths. No bullshit.”

You nodded slowly, your fingers curling around his.

“There’s a reason I didn’t tell you,” Reid started. “I’m sworn to secrecy by the Covenant. It’s… not just some bro code, (y/n)—it’s ancient. The Sons of Ipswich have been guarding it for centuries.”

You tilted your head, “The… Covenant?”

“Yeah,” he said, mouth twisting like the word tasted heavy. “No one knows where the Power actually came from. But since the beginning, the first-born sons of four families—Danvers, Parry, Garwin, and Simms—have been born with certain… abilities.”

Your brows knit, “What kind of abilities?”

“Limitless,” Reid said simply, leaning back a little. “Only bound by the user’s imagination. When a kid hits thirteen, they get a taste of it—a trial run. Then, on their eighteenth birthday, they ascend. The Power gets… stronger. Like, a thousand times stronger.”

You paused to process, your voice barely above a whisper, “So… you, Pogue, Caleb, and Tyler are all—”

“Witches,” he affirmed, not flinching.

Your mouth opened, then closed.

You shook your head in disbelief, “So you just… have all this limitless magic to use whenever you want, all the time?”

“Not exactly," Reid’s tone softened. “The Power... it’s addictive. And after you ascend, it becomes your life force. Use it too much, and it burns you from the inside out. You age fast.”

Your brows rose, a flicker of concern passing over your features, “How often do you use it?”

He hesitated, a faint wince tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I mean… not—”

“Reid.”

He gave a weak smile, “…More than I should.”

You scoffed, smacking him on the arm, “It won’t be long before you’re eighteen! Are you trying to be a twenty year-old grandpa?”

He chuckled, leaning closer, his smirk sliding back into place, “Aww, princess… are you worried about me?”

You rolled your eyes, turning away and crossing your arms.

“As if. It wasn’t two seconds ago I thought this was all your fault. Honestly... I really thought you were trying to hurt me... make me love you... make the pain worse.”

He froze, your words sinking in.

Then, his brows lifted slowly.

“Wait... hold up. Love me?”

You stiffened, realizing what you'd just said, “I—That’s not—You know what I meant.”

His grin grew, “Oh, I know what you meant.”

Your face flushed instantly, “Reid—”

“Be my girlfriend,” he said, voice warm but earnest, cutting you off.

You gaped, blinking at him like he’d just spoken in another language, “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” he said without hesitation. “I knew it the second I had you cornered in that stupid closet.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling your body flush against his, “Did you put a spell on me?”

He smirked, tilting his head, “Is that a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved, “…Yeah.”

His grin softened into something genuine as he lifted his hands to your face, fingers splaying along your jaw.

Then, without a word, he closed the space between, kissing you with a heat and hunger that had been building for weeks.

It was the kind of kiss that made the banshee, the nightmares, the rules of the Covenant—all of it—fall away, leaving just the two of you in the dim glow of your dorm.

.

.

V. Banshee

Your dorm room was silent except for the faint hum of the old radiator.

You lay curled beneath your comforter, deep in sleep, the moonlight filtering faintly through the blinds and striping across your blanket.

After Reid had dropped you off outside the dorms—that familiar, cocky grin tempered by something softer—you had walked up the steps still feeling the heat of his gaze.

But it wasn’t the dancing, the charged tension, or even his ten-dollar bill that lingered most in your mind.

It was his eyes.

That impossible black.

You'd replayed it over and over while brushing your teeth, while changing into your tank top and shorts.

Maybe it had been the light.

The bar’s shadows.

Your imagination.

Or maybe… it had been something else entirely.

You weren't the type to spook easily, but the image had rooted itself in your brain like a stubborn weed.

Eventually, with a huff, you shoved the thought aside, telling yourself you were overthinking.

You crawled under your blanket, tugging it up to your chin, and let the weight of exhaustion pull you under.

Hours passed.

The building settled.

Somewhere down the hall, a faucet dripped.

Then—

A sudden chill crept through the room.

It wasn’t gradual—no gentle draft or soft breeze—but a sharp, invasive drop in temperature, as though the air itself had been leeched of warmth in a single breath.

Goosebumps prickled instantly across your skin.

Your sleeping form shifted, your shoulders curling inward under the blanket.

In your dreams, the world had changed.

The air there felt thick, heavy, pressing down on you.

The silence was wrong, too perfect, like sound itself had been swallowed whole.

You could feel something there—an eerie presence hovering just out of sight.

Your brows furrowed in your sleep, a faint whimper escaping your lips.

The sensation intensified.

An unnatural fear bloomed in your chest, not the rational kind but the kind that seemed to burrow into the bones— ncient, primal, all-consuming.

It coiled tight in your stomach, winding your nerves like a spring about to snap.

Your breathing grew shallow.

Then—

It came.

From the shadows ahead, a figure ripped forward into your vision—a horrifying, banshee-like apparition, its form flickering and warped as though it couldn’t decide if it was flesh or smoke.

Its hollow, hate-filled eyes locked onto you.

It opened its mouth and unleashed a scream.

Not just loud piercing, violent, a shriek that rattled the marrow in your bones.

Your own scream ripped from your throat in tandem as you flinched violently, the dream shattering in an instant.

Your eyes flew open.

You shot upright in your bed, chest heaving, hair damp against your temples, the comforter twisted in your fists.

The room was dark, silent, empty.

Your gaze darted across the space—the closed door, the shadowed desk, the half-open closet searching for any sign that what you'd seen had bled into reality.

Nothing.

Just you.

Slowly, painfully, your breathing began to even out.

The pounding in your ears dulled.

With a shaky exhale, you flopped back down against your pillow, the springs creaking under your weight.

Your eyes stayed open, staring up at the ceiling, as though you could still feel the banshee’s scream echoing somewhere in the far corners of your mind.

You failed to fall asleep for the rest of the night.

.

.

.

Morning sunlight barely peeked through the blinds when your restless sleep was cut short by a soft, but persistent knock, knock, knock.

You groaned into your pillow, your body leaden with exhaustion.

The last time you'd looked at the clock it had been 5:30 a.m., when you'd finally managed to drift off after hours of tossing in the aftermath of that nightmare.

Your limbs moved sluggishly as you pushed the covers away, the chill of the hardwood biting at your bare feet.

You rubbed at your eyes, hair mussed, every step a lazy meander toward the door.

The hinges gave a slow creak as you swung it open—

And there he was.

Reid Garwin.

He stood there in full Spenser Academy uniform, leaning on the door frame like he owned it, his blond hair just messy enough to look deliberate.

The moment his eyes landed on you, his expression shifted—pleasant surprise flickering into a subtle widening of his gaze.

And then… it lingered.

Your brows flattened, catching exactly where his attention had drifted—your nearly see-through, tight white tank top, paired with the smallest sleep shorts you owned.

Your voice came out low, pointed, “My eyes are up here.”

His mouth curled into a smirk, “Yeah… but the view’s better down there.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed the faintest twitch.

“So,” he drawled, still leaning casually against the frame, “we playing hooky today?”

Your brow arched, “What are you talking about? It’s only—”

You turned toward your nightstand, glancing at your alarm clock.

Your breath caught.

Five minutes to class.

“Shit!”

The word slipped out with a gasp as adrenaline finally hit your system.

That’s when you really noticed—the neatly knotted tie, pressed shirt, and perfect uniform on Reid, contrasted against your disheveled self.

You had absolutely overslept.

In a blur, you spun back into the room, snatching your skirt off the back of your chair, your blazer from a hook, and half your uniform from where it had landed the night before.

Reid stepped inside without invitation, quietly shutting the door behind him before taking a slow, unhurried seat on the edge of your bed.

From his vantage point, he watched you flit around the room like a hurricane—grabbing garments, muttering under your breath—each movement fueling the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Arms piled high with clothing, you rushed into the en-suite bathroom.

Over the sound of hangers clattering, you called out, “What are you even doing at my door? Mr. Silvers’s class is in the total opposite direction.”

He shrugged, though you couldn’t see it, “Figured I’d start making a habit of walking you to class.”

A flutter hit your stomach, sharp and quick.

Hidden safely behind the door, you allowed yourself to smile, voice smoothing into casual curiosity, “And why’s that?”

His answer came without hesitation, dripping with confidence, “Can’t have my future girlfriend walking to class by herself.”

Your eyes went wide.

Still barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, you pushed the bathroom door open just enough to poke your head out, eyebrows raised as you worked the buttons closed.

“Future girlfriend?” you repeated, masking your surprise with forced nonchalance.

He leaned back slightly on your bed, smirking like a man who knew he’d just scored a point, “When you know, you know.”

Rolling your eyes—though your pulse quickened—you stepped out fully, now in your button-up, pleated skirt, and tie draped loosely around your neck.

You were fussing with it when Reid rose to his feet.

He closed the distance between you with two, smooth strides.

Before you could react, his fingers curled around the loose ends of your tie and he gave a firm tug, pulling you flush against him.

You let out a startled yelp, your hands instinctively bracing against his chest.

He didn’t look away from you.

Not once.

His gaze held yours as he began to knot the tie with practiced precision—fingers brushing lightly against the fabric, his proximity radiating heat.

Each loop and pull felt intentional, a wordless game that left your heart thudding hard enough you were certain he could feel it.

When he was done, the knot sat perfectly against your collar.

He smirked, satisfied, and bent to snag something off the floor.

He held up your black loafers and a pair of socks, dangling them like a prize.

You blinked, caught completely off guard by… all of it.

You muttered the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re so late to class.”

His grin widened, eyes glinting.

He slid a hand to your hip, pulling you in just enough for your noses to almost touch.

His voice dropped to a low murmur, eyes sweeping over you.

“Worth it.”

.

.

.

You had spent the last seven days living in a rhythm you didn’t quite expect to enjoy so much.

True to his word, Reid had shown up at your door every morning, walking you to class with that cocky swagger and easy smirk, uniform shirt always slightly unbuttoned.

Every afternoon, he’d be there again, like clockwork, to walk you back.

No matter how many friends called him or how many girls batted their lashes, he made sure you got to your dorm before heading off to whatever awaited him at the Garwin mansion.

And the flirting?

It never stopped.

Every glance was a challenge, every brush of his hand on your lower back a dare.

He was shameless, relentless, and—though you'd never admit it to him—you loved every damn second of it.

But the nights… the nights were another story entirely.

Every time you closed your eyes, the cold came first, slipping into your bones like icy smoke.

Then the presence—heavy, suffocating, ancient.

The banshee would come screaming through the dark, its shriek curling through your skull like barbed wire.

Your chest would tighten, your breath would catch, and then you'd be awake, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like you'd just run for your life.

It had happened every night since the bar incident, and you'd finally had enough.

Which was why you were now buried in a fortress of books at the Spenser library—titles on banshees, ghosts, night terrors, even a dusty old volume on the history of Ipswich itself.

Your fingers had turned soft from flipping thin, yellowed pages.

You'd found plenty on spectral folklore and dream demons, but the real surprise came when you dug into Ipswich’s past.

The witch trials of the 1600s kept popping up again and again, always circling back to four family names: Danvers, Simms, Garwin, and Parry.

You had just turned to a page where Garwin was printed in bold under an old sketch of a trial when a shadow fell over your shoulder.

“Whatcha doin’?”

You nearly jumped out of your chair, hand flying to your chest.

“God, Reid!” you hissed, breathless. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

His smirk was pure devilment, but his eyes flicked down to the page in front of you—and froze.

The sketch, the name.

Internally, he cursed, a faint pang of panic pricking at his gut, though his face didn’t show it.

“Gonna tell me?” he asked casually, leaning an arm against the back of your chair.

You shook your head, trying to wave it off, “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

You hesitated, then exhaled.

“I’ve been… having these nightmares. Every night. Same thing... a chill, something in the room, and then this banshee just… screaming in my face. It feels real. Like, too real," you paused, glancing at the pile of books. “I read that witches used to send… I don’t know… apparitions, dream demons. Darklings, or whatever. And I keep finding these four family names in all this old Ipswich history, yours included.”

For a moment, Reid’s carefully built mask cracked—just enough for worry to flicker in his eyes before he smothered it with a laugh.

“Babe, this is all just… nonsense,” he plucked the book off the table by its cover and dangled it above your head like it was a dead rat, “Old-timey campfire stories.”

You scoffed, standing to snatch it back.

“Oh yeah? Because your name pops up in here a lot,” you caught his wrist mid-air, your smirk challenging. “What are you, a witch?”

Reid winced dramatically, clutching his chest, “You wound me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your grip lingered, your gazes locking in something that was half playful, half… something else.

Then his smirk deepened, an idea sparking in his mind.

His hand slid to your hip, pulling you a fraction closer, “How about this... Friday night, I take you out. My treat.”

You arched a brow, “What isn’t your treat?”

“That’s kinda the point,” he murmured, noses almost touching now.

Your lips curved, slow and smooth, “Fine. Eight o’clock.”

He leaned in at a snail’s pace, eyes dropping to your mouth.

But just before contact, you veered away with a grin, “Strike two.”

Your gathered your books, pivoting toward the exit.

Behind you, he playfully groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re killing me, (n/n).”

“Good,” you called over your shoulder, the sway of your hips deliberate.

He let out a low whistle, his eyes inevitably drifting downward—only to be met with your middle finger raised high, blocking the view.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

But even as the warmth lingered in his chest, your words about the banshee and the Garwin name pressed like a weight in the back of his mind.

You were closer to the truth than you knew.

.

.

IV. Barf

Nicky’s was alive in that comfortably chaotic way it always seemed to be—the low hum of chatter competing with the clack of billiard balls, bursts of laughter from the bar, the occasional cheer from a corner table where someone had just sunk an impossible shot.

The air smelled faintly of beer, fried food, and that warm, lived-in scent of a place where people came to stay, not just pass through.

The door swung open, letting in a cool rush of night air as the Sons of Ipswich stepped inside with the girls in tow.

They moved like they owned the place, weaving through the crowd with an ease that came from being known here.

Caleb was already scanning for an open spot, and when he found a free table tucked near the wall—close enough to see the pool tables but far enough to talk—he gestured for everyone to follow.

They claimed the table in a flurry of movement, Sarah sliding in beside Kate, you taking the spot across from them.

Pogue leaned on the back of a chair, looking down at Sarah and Kate.

“You two want anything to eat?” he asked, nodding toward the bar where the kitchen order window glowed in warm light.

Sarah smiled, giving her order without hesitation, and Kate chimed in right after, tossing in a teasing remark about Pogue not forgetting her fries this time.

He rolled his eyes, grinning, and Caleb clapped him on the shoulder before the two of them headed off toward the bar to place the order.

The spot behind you loomed slightly under a new presence, and a moment later, warm hands settled on your shoulders.

Reid.

He leaned down just enough that you could catch the faint scent of chlorine still clinging to his skin under the clean edge of his cologne.

“You want anything?” he asked, casual in tone but with that slight tilt in his voice—the same question Caleb and Pogue had just asked the other girls, but somehow it felt… different.

You turned in your seat, one eyebrow arched, your lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

That earned you his own—sharp, slow, like he was more than happy to play into it.

He didn’t bother denying, didn’t even blink, just kept his gaze locked on yours, waiting for an answer.

“I’m good for now,” you said finally, leaning back a little, testing the waters.

Reid nodded, but not before giving your shoulders a quick, lingering rub—fingers pressing just enough to make you aware of his touch before he pulled back.

“Alright. I’m gonna go hit the pool table.”

You gave him a small nod, watching as he straightened.

“Count me in,” Tyler’s voice came from across the table as he slid out of his seat, joining Reid without hesitation.

The two of them moved toward the pool table, effortlessly parting the crowd as they went.

You found yourself following them with your eyes a little longer than you meant to, catching the way Reid’s head tilted as he said something to Tyler, his easy grin flashing under the warm glow of the overhead lights.

Kate, of course, noticed.

But for now, she didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Your attention, which had been drifting between the crowd and the pool table, snapped back when you caught a snippet of Kate and Sarah’s ongoing conversation.

They were talking in low voices, heads tipped together, but you could hear just enough to know Reid’s name had come up.

“Alright,” you cut in, leaning forward on your elbows over the table. “I’ve been meaning to ask... what exactly was that warning about earlier? You know, when you told me to watch out for him?”

Kate shifted in her seat, giving a small shrug that was too casual to be truly casual, “I was just making you aware he’s… a bit of a flirt.”

Her tone was light, but there was a glint in her eyes.

“If I’m being honest, I’ve never seen him stick with one girl for longer than a day or two. Ever. So this… whatever this is? This is new.”

Sarah nodded immediately, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Same here. I haven’t known him as long as Kate has, but even I can tell this is definitely uncharted territory for him. You’re… different.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curling faintly, “Different how?”

Kate and Sarah traded a quick look that made you feel like you'd just walked into the middle of some unspoken agreement.

“Different enough that he’s still looking at you,” Kate said plainly.

You tilted your head toward the pool tables without moving your eyes.

Sure enough, Reid was bent over the felt, lining up a shot—but he wasn’t just focused on the game.

Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder toward you, like checking to make sure you were still there.

“Okay, so what am I supposed to do about it?” you asked, though the corner of your mouth was already twitching upward.

“Go for it!” Kate and Sarah answered in perfect unison.

Sarah grinned and leaned in, “Seriously. Strut your stuff. Show off what you’ve got.”

Kate gave her a once-over, shaking her head with exaggerated disbelief, “You’re way too gorgeous to be sitting here overthinking it. You've got the goods, so go do something about it.”

You laughed under your breath, but there was an undeniable flutter in your chest.

Their words were hitting the right nerve.

“Alright,” you said finally, straightening in your seat.

Hyped up, you slid out of the booth and shrugged off your denim jacket, tossing it across the back of your chair.

The air inside Nicky’s was warm enough that the cropped black tube top underneath felt just right—snug against your skin, baring just enough to make your low-rise jeans seem even lower.

You felt Kate and Sarah’s approving eyes on you, and it only fueled your confidence.

Then you got an idea.

You smirked to yourself, flipping open you wallet and fishing out a single quarter.

You rolled it between your fingers as you wove your way through the crowded tables toward the glowing juke box in the corner.

Every step had purpose, slow enough to be deliberate, but casual enough not to look like you were trying.

You could feel the thrum of the bass under your feet, the warmth of the crowd pressing in, and somewhere behind you—you just knew Reid was watching.

You stopped in front of the juke box, slipping the quarter into the slot with a metallic clink, your smirk lingering as the selection screen lit up.

You scanned the glowing song list, your brow ticking upward.

The selection wasn’t exactly the stuff you'd grown up on back in Jersey, nor did it match the beats that usually lit up your playlists.

But after a moment of scrolling, your lips curled into a sly little smile.

You'd found something workable.

Something with just the right tempo to get a crowd moving and, more importantly, to send a message.

You fed the quarter into the slot, pressing the buttons with deliberate precision.

The first chord hit the speakers and, almost instantly, the mood inside Nicky’s shifted.

Whoops of approval broke out across the bar, a ripple of excitement rolling through the patrons.

A few people abandoned their drinks and chairs to flood the dance floor, eager to ride the wave the song promised.

You turned from the machine, that smirk still playing on your lips, and began a slow, confident walk toward the pool tables.

The crowd seemed to part just enough for you to move through, the warm air thick with the scent of beer and tension.

From across the room, Kate and Sarah’s voices rang out, sharp with encouragement—“Go get him, babe!”—punctuated by playful whistles that only bolstered your confidence.

At the pool table, Reid was in his element, casually demolishing a couple of overconfident guys who clearly had no idea they were being hustled by a witch.

His cue moved with precision that was almost too perfect—unearthly force gliding the ball exactly where he wanted it.

His back was turned, giving you the perfect opening.

You closed the last bit of distance and, without hesitation, let your fingers trail in a slow, deliberate line down the length of his spine—from the broad muscle at his shoulder blades to the lean taper of his waist.

You felt him stiffen, then straighten slightly at the contact.

Before he could even turn, you caught his hand, slipping your fingers between his, and gently pulled him to the side.

“He'll be right back,” you said brightly to his opponents, your smile equal parts sweet and sly.

One of the guys opened his mouth to protest, but Reid’s gaze was already locked on you.

Whatever he’d been about to say vanished under his expression—a mix of fascination, delight, and pure, unfiltered pleasure at being interrupted by you.

He didn’t resist.

Hell, he didn’t even try.

You tugged him toward the dance floor, and he followed without a flicker of hesitation, the line of his mouth curving in open amusement.

Once you hit the floor, it was like a movie come to life, the two of you falling into sync without a single word.

You moved together in a way that was all heat and rhythm, your bodies winding and grinding with just enough space to be suggestive and just enough contact to make the suggestion burn.

The song’s bass thrummed through the soles of your shoes, up your legs, into your chest, pulling him closer.

Reid spun you once, then twice, his hand never leaving yours, and each time you came back into him, the gap between your bodies shrank.

Sparks weren’t just flying—they were crackling.

You could feel his breath when he leaned in; you could feel his hand skate low on your back, fingers grazing the bare skin just above your waist.

You knew he wanted you.

He knew you wanted him.

And maybe most intoxicating of all—you both knew that the other knew.

By the time the last notes of the song bled out, Reid was still right there, close enough that you could see the darker ring of blue around his irises.

His hand had settled on your hip, thumb tracing slow, idle circles that made your pulse stutter.

He was just waiting—poised to close the last inch, to press his mouth to your.

You let the moment hang for a heartbeat.

Then another.

Then, with a teasing glint in your eye, you broke it.

“I’m gonna go get a Coke,” you said, voice warm and playful, like you'd just pulled the oldest trick in the book and knew it.

Reid’s smirk deepened—no frustration, just intrigue.

Without breaking eye contact, he slid a folded ten-dollar bill into your hand, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

And the amount... about 8.50 more than necessary.

You gave him a look—equal parts seriously? and don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing—but his answering grin was pure devilry.

Turning on your heel, you wove your way toward the bar, the weight of his gaze following you the entire way.

You didn’t have to check to know.

You slipped through the small crowd near the bar, the bass from the jukebox still buzzing faintly in your chest.

Nicky, ever the smooth operator behind the counter, spotted you right away.

“What’ll it be, sweetheart?” he asked, already grabbing a clean glass.

“Coke, please,” you said with an easy smile, leaning one elbow against the polished wood.

Your fingers drummed idly against the edge as you let your gaze drift back across the room.

There he was.

Reid.

Already back at the pool table, cue stick in hand, shoulders loose and easy, but with an unbeatable grin plastered across his face—the kind that said yeah, I just danced with her and it was exactly what you think it was.

He sank a ball like it was nothing, and even from here you could see that Tyler was giving him hell in that brotherly, teasing way.

You smirked to yourself… right before someone slid into the open space beside you.

Your stomach sank the moment you clocked the face.

Kent.

Tall, broad-shouldered, letterman-jacket-wearing Kent.

The school’s walking stereotype of a jock—and its most infamous asshole.

You'd seen enough of his antics in the hallways to know exactly the type of guy you were dealing with.

And tonight, it was obvious someone had been slipping him drinks.

His eyes had that unfocused glassiness, his smirk was just a little too loose, and his words came out with the lazy slur of someone who’d been riding the bar’s generosity a bit too long.

“Well, well, if it isn’t (y/n),” he drawled, leaning way too close already. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. You’re lookin’—” his gaze made an uninvited sweep over your frame, “—real good tonight.”

Your shoulders stiffened.

“Cool,” you said flatly, eyes still on the bar, not even bothering to gift him your full attention.

That should’ve been enough. But Kent was never the type to take a hint.

“You know,” he continued, his tone attempting some kind of sultry but landing firmly in gross, “I could show you a way better time than any of these losers here. We could—”

“Let me stop you right there,” you cut him off like a blade through rope, finally turning to fix him with a look sharp enough to slice. “Not interested. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Your words hit with the full force of Jersey-bred bluntness.

But instead of backing off, the rejection only seemed to sour his expression.

His smile thinned, and his voice dropped lower, rougher.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he said, his body angling closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

You planted your palm against his chest—not gently—and shoved him back a step, “I said no. Try listening.”

For a split second, he froze.

Then he took that step forward again, his shadow cutting into your personal space, his breath reeking faintly of beer and something sharper.

And then—

He stopped.

His face went slack, a flicker of confusion crossing it.

His skin seemed to pale beneath the dim bar lights.

“Uh—”

He lurched forward, cheeks ballooning.

Your reflexes kicked in, and you jumped back, barely escaping the sudden blast of vomit that erupted from him.

It hit the bar’s floor in an ugly splash, the smell hitting the air immediately.

Gasps rippled through the room—sharp inhales, startled shouts, the scrape of chairs.

Someone laughed nervously in the corner.

Your own breath caught as your eyes darted instinctively toward the pool table.

You caught him.

Reid, standing there with his cue resting loosely in one hand, expression unreadable… except for his eyes.

Black.

Pure, midnight black.

And then, just as quickly, they shimmered and bled back into that impossible, icy blue.

Your brows knit together, confusion laced with a hint of disbelief.

What the hell was that?

.

.

I. Seven Minutes in Heaven

The air inside AP U.S. Government felt a little cooler than the hallway outside—the faint hum of the old air conditioning system was joined by the muted scrape of pens against paper and the low, rhythmic sound of Mr. Silvers writing dates across the blackboard in his neat, deliberate script.

The door opened quietly.

You stepped in, the click of your polished black loafers muffled by the carpeted floor.

You wore the Spenser Academy girls’ uniform like it had been tailored for you—white button-down crisp against your warm skin, dark navy-blue sweater vest layered beneath a matching blazer adorned with the school’s gold-and-navy crest, a dark gray skirt pressed sharp, and a red-and-gray striped tie knotted perfectly.

Your hair was styled in a way that framed your face elegantly, catching the light as you walked.

You didn’t shrink under the dozens of curious eyes that turned toward you.

Your chin was lifted, gaze forward, posture relaxed but poised—not shy, not boastful.

Just present.

Mr. Silvers’s chalk stopped mid-word, “Ah. You must be (y/n) (l/n).”

His voice was warm, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Welcome to Spenser Academy. We’re glad to have you.”

You gave a polite nod but didn’t speak, your silence holding the kind of quiet confidence that somehow made the room a little more aware of you.

Turning back to the class, Mr. Silvers gestured toward the middle rows.

“Why don’t you take a seat between Sarah Wenham and Kate Tunney? Ladies, raise your hands, please.”

Sarah and Kate, both sitting side-by-side halfway up the lecture hall’s steep incline of seats, lifted their hands in greeting.

Sarah's blonde ponytail bounced as she smiled, Kate's eyes kind and inviting.

You crossed the room, your stride unhurried.

You ascended the steps with the same composed grace you'd walked in with, and slid into the open seat between them.

The faint scent of your perfume—warm, faintly vanilla—seemed to follow.

“Hey,” Kate whispered, leaning slightly. “I’m Kate.”

“Sarah,” Sarah added softly, tucking a strand of light hair behind her ear.

Your lips curved into a small but genuine smile, “(y/n). Nice to meet you both.”

You exchanged quiet pleasantries as Mr. Silvers returned to his lecture, chalk squeaking faintly against the board.

Within minutes, you three were leaning closer together, trading quick whispers between note-taking.

You, despite your initial reserve, responded easily to their kindness—your personality slipping into the conversation with subtle, well-placed comments that earned hushed laughs.

A few rows higher, Reid Garwin slouched back in his seat beside Tyler Simms, his pencil tapping idly against the desk.

He wasn’t taking notes.

Wasn’t even pretending to.

Because he hadn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you walked in.

It wasn’t like you were his type—or at least, not the kind he usually chased.

But there was something about you that seemed to pull him in without trying.

Maybe it was the way you walked in without a trace of nervousness, or the quiet assurance in the tilt of your chin.

Or maybe it was the fact that you were just… stunning.

No, beyond stunning.

Tyler, catching the direction of his gaze, smirked, “Dude, if you stare any harder, you’re gonna burn a hole in her head.”

Reid’s mouth quirked into a lazy grin, “Relax, Simms. Just appreciating the view.”

“Sure,” Tyler drawled, turning back to his notes, “keep telling yourself that.”

Back between Sarah and Kate, you were laughing softly at something Sarah said when Kate leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Don’t look now, but Reid Garwin has been staring at you since you walked in.”

You, curious despite yourself, turned your head just enough to glance up the rows.

Sure enough, there he was—golden hair just slightly tousled, posture the picture of casual arrogance, one arm draped over the back of his bench.

When your eyes met, his mouth curved into a slow, flirty smirk that was equal parts invitation and challenge.

You blinked once, unimpressed, and turned back to your desk.

“Not interested,” you murmured.

Sarah, watching the exchange, smiled knowingly, “I think it’s cute.”

Kate gave an incredulous little scoff, "Cute? Sarah, please. He’s a total womanizer. Ask literally any girl here. You’d be better off steering clear.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, “He’s not that bad. He can actually be really sweet once you get to know him.”

You gave them both an easy shrug, “Either way, romance is the last thing on my mind right now. I’m not going for anybody.”

Kate snorted.

“Sounds like you need to loosen up a little,” her tone was teasing, not unkind. “Tell you what... there’s a house party tonight at this huge estate. You should come. Be my plus one.”

You hesitated, brows raising slightly, “A party? On my first day?”

“Exactly,” Kate grinned. “Breaks the ice.”

Sarah chimed in, “It could be fun. You’ll get to meet more people.”

You tilted your head, considering—but before you could answer, the two of them had already launched into their pitch, painting the night in promises of music, drinks, and the sort of legendary gatherings Spenser was known for.

By the time the bell rang, you found yourself nodding in reluctant agreement.

“All right,” you said with a small laugh. “I’ll go.”

Kate smirked triumphantly, “Good. We’ll make sure you have fun.”

From his seat up the rows, Reid watched you leave the classroom with the girls, that smirk of his still in place.

Something told him tonight was going to be interesting.

.

.

.

The estate loomed in the night like some Gothic oil painting—tall, wide, and draped in ivy, its high-paned windows glowing golden in the dark.

The stone driveway curved toward a grand front entrance lit by brass lanterns, but whatever air of old-money formality the exterior held was completely shattered the moment the heavy oak doors opened.

Inside, the atmosphere roared.

The bass from whatever playlist was pumping through the sound system made the floor faintly vibrate beneath your shoes.

Laughter, shouts, and the hiss of beer taps mingled into one continuous, dizzying wave of sound.

Someone was already halfway through a keg stand near the front hall, their friends chanting.

The smell of beer, perfume, and something faintly smoky clung to the air.

You stepped in alongside Sarah and Kate, your dark blazer and button-up exchanged for a light, black leather jacket and cropped tank top—making you look in place among the chaotic melee of letterman jackets and weekend clothes.

You were a lot later than fashionably late, but judging by the sheer number of people still milling around, the party was far from over.

Kate and Sarah wove through the throng like they’d done it a hundred times, exchanging waves, air kisses, and shouted greetings over the music.

You followed close behind, dodging red plastic cups, weaving between laughing clusters of classmates, taking in the high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and ornately carved woodwork—all of it dimmed under flashing party lights.

Until you finally spilled into the sitting room, the beating heart of the chaos.

The crowd here was thicker, couches pushed back against the walls to make space for a wide swath of people standing, talking, dancing.

And there—as if they’d been waiting—sat the Sons of Ipswich.

Pogue Parry was the first to move, standing the moment he spotted Kate.

He greeted her with a quick, unhesitating kiss that made her grin, before looping an arm around her waist.

Caleb Danvers followed suit, leaning down to greet Sarah with his own quiet affection.

“What took you so long?” Pogue asked, voice raised just enough to cut through the music.

Kate rolled her eyes good-naturedly, “There was an accident on the main road. Had to take the long way.”

Before you could drift toward the edges of the room, a tall brunette with a perfect blowout—Dana, clearly the hostess—appeared from the crowd.

She hugged each of you in turn, smiling wide.

“You came just in time,” she said brightly, the faint slur in her words betraying she’d been enjoying the kegs.

Your gaze wandered past Dana in that moment, scanning the room—and there he was.

Reid Garwin lounged on a nearby leather couch, one arm draped along the backrest, the other holding a red cup loosely.

He wasn’t talking.

Wasn’t laughing.

His eyes—blue, sharp, and locked on you—tracked your every move.

The intensity in his stare made your stomach flip unexpectedly, heat creeping up your neck.

But then Kate’s earlier warning flashed in you mind.

Womanizer.

Trouble.

You forced yourself to look away.

Dana, oblivious to the moment, clapped her hands suddenly.

“Okay, we’re about to start Seven Minutes in Heaven, and (y/n) —” Dana’s eyes brightened with sudden inspiration “— you should totally join in.”

Your head snapped toward her, “Oh, no. Absolutely not—”

Kate, grinning wickedly, gave you a light shove forward, “Uh, yeah! Perfect way to let loose. Go on.”

You raised your brows, deadpan, “What is this, junior high?”

“Exactly the attitude you’ve gotta get rid of,” Kate shot back without missing a beat.

“Seriously—” you started again, but Dana had already looped her hand through your arm.

“C’mon,” Dana urged, tugging you toward a growing circle of people in the middle of the room. “It’s just a game. You might even have fun.”

Sarah shot a sympathetic smile from behind Kate as you were half-guided, half-dragged into the circle.

The plush Persian rug beneath your knees was already ringed with eager faces, some leaning forward, others giggling at whispered bets.

You folded your legs beneath you, giving Dana a sidelong look that promised payback later.

From across the room, Reid had been watching the entire thing—the shove, the protest, the reluctant compliance.

And as soon as your knees hit the rug, he set his drink down without a word, pushed himself up from the couch, and strode toward the circle.

“Count me in,” he said casually as he dropped down onto the floor, his grin aimed directly at yo.

You felt the corner of your mouth twitch despite herself.

Oh, this was going to be trouble

The circle shifted, knees scraping against the ornate Persian rug, as Dana knelt in the center holding up an empty beer bottle like a trophy.

“Okay,” she announced with mock ceremony, raising her voice above the music spilling in from the next room. “For those of you who somehow missed the past decade of your lives, here are the rules: whoever’s turn it is spins this bottle. Whoever it lands on will be their broom closet partner for seven whole minutes.”

Her grin widened devilishly.

“You can do whatever you want in there… or be boring and do nothing at all. Totally up to you.”

A few whistles and suggestive chuckles rippled through the circle.

Dana’s gaze shifted toward you like a spotlight.

“And because you’re new, (y/n)…” she smirked. “…you get the honor of going first.”

(y/n) sighed, the sound almost lost under the crowd’s murmurs, “Of course I do.”

Kate, sitting across the circle, was grinning like she’d planned this from the beginning.

Sarah gave you a sympathetic shrug.

Resigned, you reached for the beer someone had handed you earlier and took a long swallow—not enough to be reckless, just enough to coat the moment in a thin layer of liquid courage.

Then you took the bottle from Dana, holding it between your palms.

“All right,” you said flatly, placing it on the rug. “Let’s get this over with.”

You gave the bottle a firm spin.

It whirled in tight, glinting circles, catching flashes of light from the chandelier above.

Laughter and half-suppressed commentary hummed around the ring.

It was no mystery that half the guys in the room were silently rooting for fate to be in their favor.

Reid Garwin most of all.

From his spot two places to your left, he leaned back on one hand, watching you with a lazy smile that didn’t quite hide his anticipation.

And then—

Black bled into his irises, dark and shimmering, just for a moment.

Unseen by anyone but himself, a thread of magic nudged the bottle’s spin, subtly tugging its momentum.

The glass slowed, slowed… and stopped.

Right.

On.

Him.

A ripple of noise shot through the circle—a mix of cheers, groans, and knowing laughter.

You blinked at the result, your feelings a confusing tangle: surprised that it landed on him, relieved it wasn’t a stranger, and yet—for reasons you didn’t fully want to unpack—disappointed all the same.

Reid’s smile broke into a grin, slow and undeniably pleased.

“Lucky me,” he drawled.

You rolled your eyes, your mouth twitching in spite of yourself.

Dana was practically vibrating, “Perfect! Go on, lovebirds. Closet’s right there.”

She pointed toward a narrow door tucked between the staircase and the hall.

Before you could mount another protest, Dana was already ushering you to your feet, steering you across the rug.

Reid got up without hesitation, falling into step beside you.

The closet was small, barely wide enough for the two of you to stand without brushing shoulders—though the faint scent of lemon-scented cleaning solution and old wood was quickly overtaken by the electric tension hanging between.

The second the door clicked shut, the timer started outside.

Reid leaned casually against the wall, crossing his arms, his grin tilting somewhere between cocky and amused.

“So… (y/n) (l/n). AP Gov... new girl in town. I'm intrigued."

You kept your posture straight, your gaze level, “That’s one word for it.”

“Want to know mine?” he tilted his head, his voice lowering just enough to thread the air between. “Fascinated.”

You gave him a look—cool, unreadable, “You lay it on this thick with everyone?”

“Only the ones worth the effort,” he said easily.

You arched a brow, “Flattering.”

“Good. You should be flattered.”

“Mm,” your tone was dry, but the corner of your mouth betrayed the faintest upward twitch.

Reid caught it instantly, “Ah, there it is. I was starting to think you were carved from stone.”

“Stone can't hear,” you shot back.

“Touché," he chuckled, leaning forward just slightly, enough to make you aware of the space between. “You know, I think we’d get along. You’ve got this… thing.”

“A ‘thing’?”

“Yeah. Like, you’re not impressed, but you’re still here talking to me. It’s… rare.”

You smirked faintly, “Maybe I’m just biding my time until the seven minutes are up.”

He grinned wider, “Maybe I’m just hoping you’re lying.”

You kept at it like that—his side full of playful, practiced charm, yours peppered with sharp wit and well-timed sarcasm.

And though you refused to drop your guard entirely, there were moments—quick, unguarded flashes—when a comment or look from him had you biting back a laugh, or feeling an unexpected spark of heat at the base of your throat.

Seven minutes passed faster than either of you realized.

The door swung open, and light from the hall spilled in.

A few partygoers craned to see what damage had been done.

But the two of you stood exactly as you had been—no rumpled clothes, no mussed hair, no flushed lips.

Just Reid, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“Well,” he said, voice low for your ears alone, “that was fun.”

You sighed softly, brushing past him toward the hall, “I’m getting a drink.”

“Don’t forget to save me a dance,” he called after, still grinning like an idiot as he sat among the brooms.

.

.