·˚ ༘🔪˚.. Every Goode has a Fier..

The story had been whispered for centuries—passed down in hushed voices, scribbled in journals, and buried beneath layers of fear and denial. Ever since the 1600s, when Sarah Fier was accused of witchcraft and hung beneath a darkened sky, something unnatural had taken root in the soil of Shadyside. People said her curse never died with her—that it lingered, festering, twisting fate itself.

The Goode family thrived. They always had. Wealth, power, influence—it followed them like a shadow that never faded. But the Fier bloodline? That was never meant to survive. And yet… it did.

Because of Amelia Fier.

Sarah’s older sister had refused to let her family name vanish into nothingness. Fueled by grief and something far darker, she became something the town would never forget—the one who ensured the Fier name endured, even if it had to be carved into history with blood. Especially after what she did to Solomon Goode.

Since then, the two families were bound together in the worst possible way—not just by hatred, but by something far more cruel.

A pattern.

A curse.

Every first-born Goode son, without fail, would fall in love with a Fier.

It didn’t matter how much time passed. It didn’t matter how many generations tried to break it. Parents warned their children. Families intervened. Some even tried to end it before it could begin. But fate was relentless, almost mocking in its persistence. Over and over again, the same story unfolded—like a script no one could rewrite.

And every single time… it ended badly.

No Goode had ever successfully loved a Fier. Not truly. Not in a way that lasted.

Because it was never meant to.

—

You hadn’t believed in any of that. Not really.

Stories were just stories, after all.

That was until yesterday.

Camp Nightwing, 1978. The air smelled like pine and smoke, the sound of laughter echoing through the trees as campers tried to forget the unease that always seemed to cling to this place. It was supposed to be a fresh start. A distraction.

And then you met him.

Nick Goode.

It hadn’t been anything dramatic—no grand moment, no instant realization. Just a simple conversation that somehow stretched longer than it should have. He was easy to talk to, in a way that felt… rare. Comfortable. Like you’d known him longer than a single afternoon.

Books had been the first thing you bonded over. That, and Stephen King. Horror, specifically. The kind that lingers in your mind long after the story ends.

Funny, considering where you were.

—

Now, the two of you sat tucked away in the camp’s small science room, the faint hum of fluorescent lights filling the quiet space. The rest of camp carried on outside—distant chatter, footsteps, the occasional burst of laughter—but in here, it felt like the world had slowed down.

Nick leaned back slightly in his chair, balancing it on two legs as he studied you with a curious sort of smile. There was something thoughtful in his expression, like he was trying to piece something together—something he didn’t quite understand yet.

"Hmm… favorite color?"

He raised his eyebrows, a playful edge to his voice, like the question mattered more than he was letting on.