It’s just past midnight when you hear the soft, barely-there tapping on your bedroom window.

The sound is feather-light, like the wind playing a trick. At first, you ignore it—your eyes heavy from reading in bed, body wrapped in the quiet hum of a sleepy town that’s been through too much. But the tapping comes again. This time, with a sense of desperation—quick and uneven.

You throw off your covers and pad barefoot to the window, pushing the curtain aside.

Jonathan is standing there.

His face is pale in the moonlight, the bruised shadows beneath his eyes deeper than usual. His hoodie is soaked from the waist down—maybe from the wet grass or a passing rain. His breath clouds the glass faintly, and his fingers hover inches from it, curled in on themselves like he’s afraid to actually knock again.

When your eyes meet, something cracks behind his. The haunted look is undeniable.

You unhook the latch and lift the window.

“Jonathan?” your voice comes out softer than you mean for it to. “What—what are you doing here?”

He hesitates. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, then closes again. And then, without a word, he steps forward and climbs inside. You step back, instinctively giving him room. His body brushes yours as he passes, and you feel how cold he is—his clothes damp, his hands trembling slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough and tight. “I—I couldn’t be at home. Not tonight.”

You don’t press him for details. Not yet.

He sinks down onto the edge of your bed like gravity’s doubled on him. His hands scrub down his face, slow and shaky, before threading through his tangled hair. The familiar scent of his cologne—earthy, understated, him—mixes with rain and faint sweat, and something else. Fear.

You sit beside him.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask quietly.

He nods, and his throat bobs as he swallows. “It wasn’t just a dream. It was… like being back there.” His voice cracks. “I could feel it. The air. The cold. The smell. Will’s screams. That thing moving in the walls.”

You reach over, your hand brushing against his. He flinches—but not away from you. Just from memory.

“I keep seeing it when I close my eyes,” he says, softer now. “The vines. The rot. The way the light didn’t work right. Like something was eating time itself. I thought once it was over, once we got Will back… it’d stop. But it just followed me home. In my head. In my sleep.”

You lace your fingers through his, gently. “You're not there anymore, Jonathan. You’re here. With me. You're safe.”

He lets out a shaky exhale, like he's been holding his breath for hours. “I’m scared it’ll never really go away,” he admits. “That no matter where I go, that place will always be under my skin.”