Clara

  My hands tremble as I grip the gun, sweat trickling down my neck. I try to force myself to appear calm, but it's like my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.

  I know the gun is empty. I know that if he calls my bluff, it'll be all over for me.

  He stands there, tall and imposing, like something out of a nightmare. A sharp contrast to the beautiful flowery background surrounding him. His eyes locked on mine with that familiar hatred and contained rage. It's the same look he always gives me, but this time, it's worse. There's something colder.

  But then, after a few seconds, something strange happens.

  He takes a step forward, and his eyes widen. For a moment, I'm sure I'm imagining it because his face goes pale and he looks... worried.

  What is happening?

  He's mumbling to himself. His hands are trembling slightly at his sides, the cold, controlled demeanor slipping. He stumbles a little as if something's weighing him down. And then, he starts yelling and snapping at nothing, causing me to flinch and grip the gun tighter for some reason.

  "Shut up!!!" he screams. "Stop it! Just shut up!"

  This is not the Alister I know. The one who's always been so calm and collected.

  I call out softly. "Hey..." unsure what to do, but he doesn't even hear me.

  His hands rise to his head, his eyes squeezed shut like he's fighting something.

  And then it happens.

  I can barely process it at first, but I see it. Flowers from the ground begin to lift from the earth. Not just one or two, but dozens of them. They float in the air, swirling around him like they've been caught in some invisible storm. It's like the earth itself is reacting to his distress.

  "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" he yells again. He stands there, eyes closed, hands clutching his head like he's trying to block something out.

  "WHY WON'T YOU JUST GO AWAY!" His voice shatters through the quiet field, hoarse and raw from the force of it. It's not just anger. It's terror.

  Leave. Now.

  That thought slices through my mind with cold clarity. This is the best chance I have while he's like this.

  The flowers keep rising, swirling in slow, eerie patterns above his head. He's hyperventilating now. I can't trust what he'll do next. I can't risk what happens when he comes back to himself and realizes I've seen him like this.

  Sliding fully back inside the car, I slip onto the driver's seat and grip the steering wheel.

  But for some reason, my legs feel heavy like I'm wading through water. My heart feels like it's being squeezed tight.

  What are you doing, you idiot!? Run. Now. Before he's able to see you.

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel. The car is running. All I have to do is press the pedal.

  Don't you dare do anything stupid. He is a murderer. He is trying to kill you.

  He is clearly unstable, and he won't stop to stab you in the back. You finally have an opportunity to escape, and you're being hesitant. What is wrong with you!?

  But my fingers won't move. My foot stays planted.

  He's kneeling now, doubled over, hands tangled in his hair, nails digging into his scalp. His entire body trembles as he begs someone to quiet down.

  He looks like a scared and traumatized kid who is struggling to cope. It then occurs to me that this might be the real Alister. Not the cold and pragmatic person people see. But a child who has been stuck in time.

  And suddenly, I'm a child again too.

  Seven years old, crouched behind the laundry hamper, clutching a plastic crate. The closet reeked of bleach and mold. My mother’s voice screamed my name—then glass shattered. Then silence.

  Silence was worse—it meant she was coming. Then her hand in my hair, dragging me out. I remember the pain, the taste of blood, and the way she blamed me for things I didn't even understand.

  That feeling. That helplessness.

  "Dammit!"

  I groan and step out of the car. Poppies, daisies, and bluebells, brush against my legs like fingers trying to hold me back.

  He's going to kill you. He's going to torture you. He's done it before, and now he won't hesitate.

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  Every fiber in my body is screaming at me to turn around and run away. But, of course, I'm not right in the head.

  I don't stop to think anymore. I toss the gun aside and sprint forward.

  The world narrows to him in the middle of the field and I drop to my knees in front of him. Then, cautiously, I reach out, wrapping my arms around his head and pulling him towards me.

  His face presses into the crook of my neck, and I feel the tension in his jaw against my collarbone. The rapid heartbeat echoing through his chest.

  I shift one arm lower, curling it protectively around his back, the other tangled in his soft hair. His whole body is tense under my touch. I feel the heat of his skin, like a furnace pressed against me.

  "Calm down." I whisper into his ear. "You're okay. Take slow, deep breaths." I can feel the raggedness of his breaths against my neck and how his body jerks with each desperate inhale.

  I brace myself, waiting for the moment when he'll snap, shove me away, shout at me, and demand I never touch him again, just like he always does. I know the drill. He hates it when I get close. Maybe he might pull out his knives and drive them into my back. Just a quick stab, an end to the things he can't deal with. How ironic, he might just kill me for trying to help him. And I'll have no one to blame but myself.

  I feel his hands move hesitantly. My throat tightens as his fingers brush across my waist, and my heart skips a beat. A flush creeps up my neck, and my mind begins to spiral. What is he doing? This is too much.

  But when his hands start to move up to my back, a chill runs down my spine, and I feel that my fears are coming true.

  "Please don't kill me for this." The words slip out before I can stop them. I close my eyes, immediately regretting it. God, I'm a fool.

  My instincts scream at me to push him away. Since I had foolishly tossed the gun aside, I should back up, snatch a knife from his jacket, and fight if I have to.

  But instead of the sharp bite of a blade or his usual angry outburst, his hands slide smoothly over the curve of my back, pulling me in, and I realize that he's trying to hold me.

  It's not an embrace, it's something else. A plea, an unspoken request for reassurance, for something to anchor him in this moment of chaos.

  As I hold him, rubbing his back, I feel his tension slowly begin to ease, like the release of a long-held breath.

  "It's okay. No one's here except us. Whatever you saw wasn't real." I murmur.

  The soft colors of yellow, white, blue, and purple remain caught in the air. It's unnerving but also weirdly beautiful.

  Still, it seems Alister has a switch, or something, because without warning, his entire demeanor shifts.

  His body goes rigid as he pushes me away with startling force. His hands, which had been holding me with desperate intensity, now shove me hard, sending me tumbling backward onto the ground.

  His face is a deep, fiery red now, cheeks flushed with a mixture of frustration, rage, and, I don't know, embarrassment, maybe? Although, I wonder if my face looks like that too, seeing as how it's still warm. His eyes are now narrowed, shooting daggers at me. The flowers that had been floating weightlessly in the air begin to fall like a sudden shower of petals.

  Some land on his head, settling on his messy hair, and some on his shoulders and chest. And despite the fury radiating off him, there's something so... adorable about it. The absurdity of the situation makes me want to smile, but I bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself.

  "What the heck were you doing!? I told you to never touch me again!" He yells.

  What a late reaction.

  I shift, propping myself up on my elbows, and with a slightly awkward smirk. I look him square in the eye, taunting him just a little. "You sure have a weird way of saying thank you."

  I don't even know if he hears the teasing in my voice or if he's too wrapped up in his own frustration to notice. "Alister, How did you do that?...with the flowers. Was that your ability?"

  "I don't know. It just..." He trails off as his gaze lands on the gun not far from us, half-buried beneath the flowers. "...happened," he finishes.

  As he begins to lean forward, instinct kicks in before I even have time to think. I quickly snatch the gun off the ground.

  "Right. So, you're going to take me to the library. Got it?" I say, pointing the gun at him.

  He doesn't flinch. His expression remains calm. The hyperventilating, crumpled mess I held in my arms moments ago might as well have been a ghost.

  He stands up, picking up his glasses and brushing the flowers off his shoulders like they disgust him. The glare he gives me is nothing short of venomous.

  "I know where you live," he says coldly, voice low like a razor sliding against skin. "I know how to get into your room."

  He steps closer, each word laced with a promise that has my stomach twisting. "Utter a word about this to anyone... and I will kill you in your sleep. Do you understand?"

  I feel goosebumps all over me. "Yeah."

  He stares for a beat longer, just to make sure the message sinks in, and then turns, as if that's the end of it.

  Anger flares in my chest. Not a second of gratitude. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Of course he wouldn't say thank you. Of course he'd rather hurl a death threat than admit he needed someone.

  But fine. If he's going to act like that, I'll at least have the last word.

  I lift my voice, sharp and theatrical, letting it echo across the clearing. "If you're going to go through all that trouble of breaking into my room," I shout after him, "at least dress up like a vampire! You know, something out of a dark romance novel, with a rose between your teeth and a dramatic shirt that shows off your clavicle. You've already got the pale skin and broody hair, might as well commit!"

  He doesn't even give me the satisfaction of a glare or even a scoff.

  Instead, he raises a hand lazily, without turning around. "I know the gun's empty," he says flatly. "You can stop waving it around like a fool."

  My smirk dies on my lips as mortification creeps in.

  He knew the whole time? But then why would he not attack me when he knew that? What game is he playing?

  My hands clench around the now-useless gun. "You're welcome, by the way!" I grunt as I stomp past him, shoulder-checking him hard as I go. He doesn't react to that either, like I'm not even worth the effort.

  I reach the car, rip the door to the backseat open, and slide inside, slamming it shut with more force than necessary. I drop my head against the window and scowl hard enough to burn a hole in the glass.

  He didn't hurl a knife at me. Even knowing the gun was empty, even after the yelling, he didn't retaliate.

  Is this gratitude in his twisted world?

  Also, what was with those floating flowers? He did look genuinely confused about it, like it's happening for the first time. But why? Was his panic the trigger to it?

  The car ride back is painfully awkward and so quiet, it's deafening. He doesn't look at me as his face stays red with anger.

  "Emotionally constipated cryptid." I mumble under my breath as I brush off the petals tangled in my hair, resting on my lap, and clinging to my shorts like confetti.