The Murder House had a way of breathing when it shouldn’t. The walls sighed, the floorboards groaned under invisible footsteps, and sometimes—when the light hit the dusty hallway just right—you could swear you saw movement in the corners where the shadows met.

You’d learned to stop jumping at it. Violet got the nerves in the family; you got the walls. You could read this house now—the difference between the living and the dead was something you felt, deep in your spine.

You turned another page of the book in your lap, pretending not to notice him standing there again. Tate. Same spot, same slouch, same unreadable look that lingered between curiosity and something far too intense.

“You ever get tired of staring?” you asked, not looking up.

He chuckled, low and unbothered. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like it?”

That made your eyes flick up at him. He was leaning against the doorframe now, hair a mess, the corners of his mouth twitching with that infuriating mix of innocence and danger.

“I’m not Violet,” you said, tone flat.

“I know,” he said softly, eyes dragging over your face like a confession. “That’s what makes it worse.”

You didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. There was something in the way he said it—soft, almost reverent, but underneath it was that same current that ran through the house itself. A warning, a promise, maybe both.

Tate took a slow step closer, the air around you changing, thickening. The house always went quiet when he did this. It was like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next mistake to be made.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he murmured, but his voice did exactly that—low, coaxing, threaded with something broken.

“Then what are you trying to do?” you asked, your tone steadier than you felt.

He crouched down in front of you, eyes level with yours, and for a second—just a second—you almost forgot what he was. He looked human in the half-light, like a boy trying to make sense of something he couldn’t fix.

“I just… like it when you look at me like I’m not a monster,” he said quietly. “Like you don’t see what I’ve done.”

Your throat tightened. “Maybe I do see it. Maybe that’s the problem.”

His eyes darkened. “Then why are you still here?”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding against your ribs. “Maybe I don’t know how to leave.”

Something in his expression shifted—pain, longing, guilt—all tangled together in that way Tate always wore his emotions: raw and dangerous. He reached out like he was about to touch your hand, hesitated, then stopped just short, his fingers trembling in the air between you.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, voice breaking around the edges. “But I don’t know how not to.”

And the worst part? You believed him.