Hometown

Chapter Four

Her fingers are loose on the wheel, her mind somewhere far behind her, tangled in half-thoughts and things she refuses to fully unpack. It isn’t until the road narrows, the trees growing thicker, more familiar in a way that pulls at something deep in her chest, that she blinks and actually looks.

And by then—

It is too late.

Or maybe it isn’t.

Her grip tightens just slightly as she slows, the tires whispering against pavement as recognition settles in. Axel’s road. Of course it is. Like some invisible thread had tugged her here without asking permission. “Of course,” she murmurs to herself, though the word carries no real weight. No surprise.

She doesn’t turn around.

Instead, she drives on.

Slower now.

Careful.

Like she is approaching something fragile. Or dangerous. Or both.

The houses are scattered one by one along the long stretch of road, darkened windows and sleeping silhouettes, until finally—

There.

Her breath catches before she can stop it.

Every light is off.

Every single one.

Except—

The soft, familiar glow of the lamp near the old oak tree.

Her chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts.

That tree.

God.

She hasn’t thought about it like this in years, not in a way that felt so present. The thick, sprawling branches stretch wide and steady, exactly as they always have, like time had the decency to leave at least one thing untouched. She can almost see it—her younger self, bare feet finding grooves in the bark, fingers gripping, climbing higher, heart pounding with adrenaline and anticipation.

Sneaking in.

Laughing too loudly.

Axel waiting.

Always waiting.

The memory hits sharper than she expects.

She pulls off to the side of the road before she can talk herself out of it, the car rolling to a quiet stop. Her headlights cut out, plunging everything into a softer darkness, one shaped only by moonlight and that single, stubborn lamp.

For a moment, she just sits there.

Hands still on the wheel.

Breathing.

Looking.

Her eyes drift upward, drawn—inevitably—to the window.

His window.

He is awake.

Still.

No movement. No shifting shadows. No sign of life behind the glass.

She swallows.

Her teeth find her nail before she even realizes it, teeth pressing down in a nervous habit she never quite broke. The taste of it grounds her, keeps her from doing something stupid. Like getting out of the car. Like walking up to that tree. Like pretending she still has any right to climb it. “Don’t,” she whispers, though it’s unclear whether she’s warning herself or daring herself.

Seconds stretch.

Too long.

Not long enough.

Her chest rises, falls. Once. Twice.

Then she exhales sharply, like she is forcing something out of her system, and shifts the car back into drive.

She doesn’t linger.

She can’t.

The tires roll forward, slow at first, then faster as she leaves the house behind, the glow of that single light shrinking in her rear view mirror until it disappears completely.

But it doesn’t feel gone.

Not even close.

By the time she pulls into her own driveway, the silence has returned in full.

Heavier now.

Colder.

The old 1940’s farmhouse stands exactly as it always has—sturdy, worn, full of history that clings to every inch of its structure. The wood siding, the wide porch, the windows that once glowed warm and golden late into the night—

Now dark.

All of them.

She turns off the engine, and just like that, the world goes still.

Too still.

Her gaze lifts slowly, tracing the outline of the house, pausing on each window as if she expects—just for a second—to see movement. A light flicked on. A shadow passing by.

Someone waiting.

But there is nothing.

There hasn’t been for a long time.

A familiar ache settles deep in her chest as she leans back in her seat, staring up at the place that is supposed to feel like home.

It is home.

That’s the problem.

After her parents passed, the house had felt… different. Not empty—not entirely—but quieter in a way that seeped into her bones. She had thought about selling it more times than she could count. Late nights, sitting exactly where she is now, keys still in the ignition, convincing herself it would be easier.

Smaller place.

Less history.

Less… everything.

But she never did.

Couldn’t.

Because this is where they are.

Because this is where she is.

And—

Because some small, stubborn part of her had always believed Axel would come back. Even when she told herself he wouldn’t. Even when she tried to move on.

Her jaw tightens slightly at the thought of Dillan.

A year.

A whole year of trying to make something work that she had known, deep down, was broken from the start.

Not when he drinks.

Not when his apologies come too easily, too often, like rehearsed lines in a script he never intends to change.

Not when the cycle repeats.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Her fingers curl slightly against the steering wheel, the memory of it flickering behind her eyes—not sharp enough to relive, but not distant enough to ignore.

She was done.

Before tonight.

Before Axel.

Before any of this.

She exhales slowly, steadying herself, grounding in that truth. “No guilt,” she murmurs under her breath, quieter this time. Firmer.

And for once—it almost sounds like she means it.

She finally opens the car door, the cool night air wrapping around her as she steps out, gaze lingering one last time on the dark windows of the house before she heads inside.

Alone.

But not as uncertain as she had been before.

Not anymore.

Inside, she locks the door behind her with a firm click, the sound echoing faintly through the quiet house. It feels louder than it should. Final in a way she doesn’t quite want to examine.

Her heels are off within seconds, kicked aside without care, landing somewhere near the entryway rug. Relief rolls through her almost instantly as her bare feet meet the cool hardwood, grounding her in a way the rest of the night hadn’t managed to.

For a moment, she just stands there.

Listening.

The house answers with silence.

Always silence.

Her hand drifts to her purse, fingers fishing out her phone more out of habit than intention. The screen lights up, harsh against the dimness around her, and—

She exhales sharply through her nose.

Over twenty messages.

Five missed calls.

All from Dillan.

Her jaw tightens, not in surprise, not even really in anger—just a dull, exhausted recognition. The kind that comes from patterns you’ve seen too many times to pretend they’ll ever change.

Her thumb hovers for half a second.

Long enough to consider.

Not long enough to give in.

She doesn’t open a single message.

Doesn’t read a word.

Instead, she swipes, clears them all in one smooth motion, like wiping dust from a surface she’s finally decided she’s done looking at.

Gone.

Just like that.

“Not tonight,” she mutters under her breath, quieter now, but steadier than before.

The screen shifts, and her expression softens slightly when she sees May’s name.

Fifteen minutes ago.

Are you home yet? I’m coming over.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, the first genuine one she’s felt all night. There’s something about May—loud, unfiltered, relentless May—that cuts through the heaviness whether Harmony asks for it or not.

Her thumbs move quickly.

I’m home.

She hits send before she can change her mind, the message whooshing off into the night.

And just like that, a flicker of energy sparks in her chest.

Axel.

The name alone is enough to shift something in her posture, in the way she inhales, deeper now, fuller. Her mind drifts—uninvited but not unwelcome—back to him. To the creek. To the way he looked at her.

It felt like no time had passed at all.

Her stomach twists lightly, not unpleasant, just… charged.

“God,” she breathes, shaking her head at herself, though the smile lingers.

She forces herself to move, pushing away from the door and heading upstairs, each step creaking faintly beneath her weight. The familiarity of it wraps around her, the routine of it, even as her thoughts refuse to settle.

Her room greets her the same way it always does—unchanged, steady, a quiet reflection of everything she’s held onto and everything she hasn’t quite let go of.

She shrugs out of her club clothes, trading them for something softer, looser. Fabric that doesn’t cling. Doesn’t demand attention. Doesn’t remind her of where she was or who she was with.

By the time she heads back downstairs, her hair is slightly mussed from pulling it free, her makeup just beginning to fade at the edges. There is something more to her about it now. Less armor. More truth.

The kitchen light flicks on, warm and low, as she reaches for a glass.

Wine feels right.

Necessary, even.

The soft glug of it filling the glass breaks the quiet in a way that doesn’t feel intrusive, just… lived in. She leans her hip against the counter as she takes the first sip, letting it settle, letting it take the edge off the thoughts still circling in her head.

Axel.

Dillan.

That damn oak tree.