It’s late. The little ones can’t sleep. You bribe them with cookies and sit up on the counter, voice hushed, full of shadows.

“They say the old owner of this house locked her husband in the crawlspace. If you hear humming at night, it’s him—scratching.”

They gasp. You grin.

And then—

Click.

Back door. Screen door. Bootsteps.

You freeze mid-sentence.

Reese is home.

⸻

She walks in.

Stops just inside the doorway.

No yelling. No eye contact yet. Just grabs a beer from the fridge, pops it open, takes a long, slow drink.

Then she leans back against the counter. Crosses one ankle over the other.

Your siblings go dead silent.

You try to play it off. “It was just a silly story.”

She looks at the kids. “Back to bed. All of you.”

They scatter like mice.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like I told them the house is haunted for real.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Did you?”

You smirk. “I mean… depends on your definition of haunted.”

She takes another sip.

Then—

“It’s real easy to be the scariest thing in the room when you’re the oldest one awake.”

You falter.

“But if you ever use my kitchen like a campfire again?”

“I’ll make you sleep in the pantry and see how long your little ghost story holds up.”

Your stomach twists, but not from fear.

Something hotter. Sharper. Like she knows why you tell these stories.

You mumble, “I wasn’t trying to hurt them.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t say you were. But I am saying you’re not the only one who’s allowed to own the dark in this house.”

She steps close. Hands still calm.

“You want to be the story? Or do you want someone to finally write you into one where you’re safe for once.”

You don’t answer.

She taps your knee.

“Get down, kid. You’re not the monster.”