Van wasn’t good at a lot—math, grief, staying calm when someone she loved was about to do something reckless. But when it came to knowing you, she was an expert. She watched from a few paces away as you fired another arrow at the frowny face carved into the tree. It veered right, thudding pitifully into the bark.

“You’re in your head again,” Van said gently, leaning on a mossy log. “I really wish I could’ve told you not to pick that card.”

You didn’t look at her. “What if I miss? What if I blow his other leg off?”

Van stepped closer. “You won’t.”

“That doesn’t help.”

She crouched beside you, her gaze steady. “Do you still think he’s guilty?”

“I think saying someone should die is different than doing it.”

Van nodded. “Maybe you won’t have to. Maybe she can.”

You turned to her. “You on shrooms again?”

“I’m serious. Remember when you used to sleepwalk? There was another you. No fear. No second guessing.”

“So, let the demon version of me handle it? That’s your pitch?”

Van grinned. “She wasn’t not cool. She survived. She led. Got us through the winter.”

“And I woke up with blood on my hands.”

Van took your hand, warm despite the cold. “We should at least try.”

You gave her a look. “What’s the plan? Chanting? Bird bones?”

“Nope.” She leaned in with a sly smile. “We go with what’s worked before.”

You raised a brow. “Which is?”

Van smacked her lips exaggeratedly. “Bow chicka wow-wow.”

You stared. “You’re serious?”

“Worked before,” she teased, nudging you. “Every time she came out—sleepwalking or… us.”

You laughed once, weakly. “So seduction’s the plan.”

“I prefer ‘summoning your inner badass.’” Her hands found your face. “And maybe kissing. For survival.” The kiss was slow, steady—something grounding. Van backed you into a boulder, pressed in, her knee between your thighs, hands sure. Then she spun you, your back flush to her, lips warm on your neck. “I know you’re in there,” she whispered. “You always showed up when it mattered.” You didn’t move. One hand slid under your shirt, the other lower.