The screech of tires tears through the darkness.
Metal screams. Glass explodes.
I’m flying—weightless, helpless—my fingers grasping for something that isn’t there. The smell hits me next: burned rubber, gasoline, smoke so thick it feels like it’s coating my lungs. Then the impact slams into me, knocking the air from my chest.
I jolt upright with a sharp gasp.
My room.
Again.
Moonlight spills through the window, painting silver lines across my familiar walls. My heart is racing so fast it feels like it might break free. I press a trembling hand to my chest, forcing myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
But the smell lingers anyway. It always does. No matter how many times Aunt Beth washes the sheets or opens the windows, the nightmare clings to me like it’s carved into my bones.
Two years.
Two years since the accident. Two years since my parents were alive. Two years of the same dream, every single night.
I swipe at my face, realizing my cheeks are wet. I don’t remember crying anymore—it just happens now, like breathing.
The door bursts open without warning.
I don’t even flinch.
Jeremiah crosses the room in three long strides, his dark hair messy, his bare feet silent against the floor. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He never does. He just pulls back the covers and climbs onto the bed beside me, wrapping his arms around me like he’s done a thousand times before.
I turn into him automatically, pressing my forehead against his chest. His steady heartbeat grounds me, the familiar scent of pine and clean earth filling my lungs. It’s the only thing that ever really works.
“You’re here,” I whisper.
“Always,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
My body slowly relaxes, the tension draining away piece by piece. Jeremiah’s hand rubs slow circles on my back, patient and steady. He’s learned exactly how to touch me—where not to startle, how to anchor me without making me feel trapped.
I don’t know how I’d survived these past two years without him.
Eventually, the darkness fades into something softer. Not sleep exactly—but rest. For the first time tonight, the nightmare loosens its grip.
Morning comes too fast.
Sunlight filters through the curtains, warm and bright, completely at odds with the heaviness in my chest. Jeremiah is already gone when I wake, the bed cool beside me. A familiar ache settles in my stomach, but I push it away and sit up.
Another night survived.
I drag myself into the bathroom, splash water on my face, and stare at my reflection. Eighteen years old, brown eyes too tired for my age, dark circles I can never quite hide. I look human enough—but sometimes I feel like something inside me has been quietly breaking for a long time.
Downstairs, the smell of breakfast greets me—eggs, toast, and something sweet baking in the oven. Aunt Beth believes food can fix almost anything.
I step into the kitchen, where she’s already bustling around, her blonde hair pulled into a neat braid, her presence calm and commanding without even trying.
She turns when she sees me, her sharp Luna eyes softening instantly.
“Awe, sweetheart,” she says gently. “You look tired. Another bad night?”
I force a small smile. “Just the usual.”
She doesn’t push. Beth never does—not with this. She sets a plate in front of me and squeezes my shoulder, the gesture full of warmth and unspoken understanding.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” she says quietly.
I nod, though I’m not sure I believe it.
The Silver Crescent Pack house hums with life around us—voices, footsteps, laughter drifting in from outside. Wolves going about their morning routines, training, patrols, pack business. This world has been part of my life for as long as I can remember… and yet, sometimes, I still feel like I’m standing on the edge of it.
Human.
Different.
Jeremiah leans against the doorway, watching me with that familiar protective look. To everyone else, we’re like siblings. Raised together. Inseparable. Safe.
But lately, something feels… off.
And deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that my nightmares aren’t just memories anymore.
They’re warnings.