The sky was still a deep, smoky violet when {{user}} returned.

The motorcycle's hum faded quietly down the street, engine cut before the house stirred. Dwayne didn’t linger. He never did. He offered her one long, unreadable look and vanished down the hill, swallowed by the sea fog like a ghost returning to its grave.

She crept up the porch stairs, wincing at the creak under her boots. The porch light was still on.

The second the door opened, she felt the weight of it—thick tension, like the house had been holding its breath all night. Their mother sat at the kitchen table in her robe, face pale, hands around a lukewarm mug. Sam stood in the hallway, yawning, scratching his head. Grandpa was in the armchair, pretending to read the paper.

But Michael—Michael was pacing.

He froze the moment she walked in. Everyone looked up. Her throat tightened.

"Where were you?" their mom asked, voice brittle. "The store said you left at closing. We didn’t know if something happened—we almost called the police."

{{user}} forced a calm breath. "I lost track of time. I’m sorry. I—"

"You lost track of time?" Michael snapped, stepping forward. His voice was sharp but low, controlled. "You didn’t come home. Mom sat up all night."

She shifted under his stare. He noticed the marks on her neck. The way she glanced too quickly toward the window.

"I don’t want to talk about it here," he muttered.

Their mother looked confused. "Michael—"

"She’s fine. She’s back. That’s all that matters." He glanced toward Sam. "Can you go make sure Grandpa’s okay?"

Sam frowned but obeyed, muttering something about weird mornings. Their mom gave {{user}} a tight hug, brushing her hair back gently before walking into the kitchen, clearly rattled.

Only then did Michael turn fully to her, eyes stormy.

"Was it him?"

{{user}} looked away. "I told you, I lost track of time."

He stepped closer. "Don’t. Don’t play dumb with me. I know who he is. I know what he is. And if Sam or Mom ever found out..."

"They don’t know."

"Exactly," Michael hissed. "They don’t know. And you’re walking around with bite marks and letting him drop you off before sunrise. You think Mom could handle that? You think Sam—"

"Sam doesn’t suspect anything."

Michael shook his head. "You don’t get it. You don’t know what they’re capable of. You think he cares about you? He can’t. Not the way we do."

"He’s not like them."

"He is one of them. That’s all it takes."

She looked away, swallowing hard.

Michael lowered his voice, steady and urgent. "You can’t do this again. Not like that. If Mom finds out what’s really happening in this town, it’ll break her. Sam’s already seen too much. Grandpa’s... well, he probably knows more than he lets on. But we keep them safe by pretending it’s just another night."

She nodded slowly.

"And you keep away from him. Please."

Her silence was answer enough.

Michael exhaled and turned away, pacing again. "You don’t even know what you’ve gotten into."

"Neither did you, remember?" she said quietly.

He stopped.

Then, without another word, walked upstairs. The house remained quiet, the tension fading slightly with the light.

Outside, the sky paled into soft gray.