The night was dark and still, the sky washed in silver light from the moon that hung low and heavy above the house. Inside, the air was cool and silent, the kind of quiet that seemed to press against the walls. Down in the basement, a single bulb buzzed faintly, its flicker casting soft, uneven shadows over the cracked concrete.

Tate sat on the bottom step, his back curved slightly, fingers loosely knotted between his knees. His blond hair caught the dim light, the faintest glint in the gloom. He stared ahead, lost somewhere far away, though his eyes kept drifting toward the door at the top of the stairs.

He was waiting for her — the only person who ever came down here willingly. The air smelled of dust and damp wood, but he didn’t seem to mind. This was where he felt hidden, unseen, safe.

When her footsteps finally echoed down the stairs, he didn’t speak at first. He just looked up, his expression unreadable in the pale light, then a slow, quiet smile tugged at his lips. The kind that said he’d been waiting all night.