Page 100 of Haunt Me, Maybe

“I don’t know. It’s cute.”

She shot me a sideways glare, eyes narrowing. “Cute? Wes, this is a crow. In this town. Nothing here is ever just cute.”

“Fair point.” I drifted a little closer, letting the cool brush of my presence skim her shoulder. “But look at it. Fuzzy feet. No murder-beak. It’s practically begging to be adopted.”

She huffed and adjusted her grip so the little plush was cradled against her side like a baby. “You’re insane. If it starts cawing prophecies at midnight, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal. I’ll take full responsibility for our impending doom-by-stuffed-animal.”

We kept moving through the crowd, her skirt swishing softly with each step and purple hair catching the shifting light from the moving sun overhead. The stuffed crow bobbed against her sweater like a dark little mascot. Every few minutes, she’d glance down at it, half-expecting it to blink or shift or reveal some hidden curse.

And every time, it sat there. Fluffy, innocent, and utterly ordinary. It was almost funny how much relief that brought. In a day already laced with dread, this ridiculous prize felt like a small rebellion against the darkness waiting at the mill. A reminder that not everything tied to crows had to be terrifying.

Aven caught me watching and rolled her eyes.

“Stop staring. You’re making it weirder.”

“Me? I’m not the one cuddling a potentially cursed festival crow.”

“I’m not cuddling it,” she protested, then immediately contradicted herself by hugging it a fraction tighter. “I’m…transporting it. For disposal. Later.”

“Sure you are, Trouble.”

The corn maze loomed ahead; the daylight version. Family safe, but we didn’t go in. Instead, Aven played a few more games: pumpkin tic-tac-toe and a bean-bag toss where her skirt flared with each throw. She laughed so hard at one point that I couldn’t help but stare at her, memorizing it.

The way her eyes crinkled. The way it sounded like bells over the festival din. The way she glanced toward me afterward, eyes shining. The sun slid lower and painted everything amber and rose. Evening crept in, and under the glow of the Ferris wheel, the crowd thickened.

Aven watched it turn, her smile fading slowly, like color draining from a photograph. Her fingers tightened around the stuffed crow, and the laughter around us suddenly felt distant and brittle.

“We should head back,” she said, voice quiet.

“Yeah.”

Fuck. I wished I could give her a little more time. We walked slowly, the festival sounds receding until the music grew thin and the laughter was swallowed by the rustle of cornstalks on the wind.

The air carried the dry scent of dead leaves and whipped with a bite. I tried to give her some space, and it made for a silent walk all the way back to the inn. But at the top of the stairs, she paused and turned toward me.

“Thank you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “For today. For letting me pretend, even for just a little while.”

I reached out and traced the line of her jaw like I was memorizing her for the last time.

“Any day you want normal, I’ll give it to you,” I swore. “Even if it’s only me haunting your shadow for as long as I can.”

The fragile words hung between us. She rose on her toes and kissed me, tasting of cider and caramel and the salt of unshed tears. Her hands fisted in the front of my shirt, pulling me closer like she could keep me solid. Keep me here. Keep me from whatever waited at the mill. When she pulled back, her breath hitched.

“What if we don’t come back from this?” she whispered. “What if tonight ends us? Both of us?”

“Then we go together,” I said, voice rough. “And every second we had—every laugh, every touch, every stupid moment in this attic—was worth it. But I’m not ready to lose you, Aven. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Her eyes shone wet and fierce.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“Me too.”

She swallowed hard, nodded once, and then opened the door to the attic. Fenn waited. The mill waited. Gideon waited. I wanted to vanish, but the thought didn’t feel like relief. It felt like tearing something vital out of the world. Out of her. My existence didn’t matter, but Aven’s did.

The attic door creaked open like it had been anticipating our return. Aven stepped inside first, her hair wind-tangled from the walk back and the tiny, stuffed crow still tucked under her arm like a reluctant talisman. The festival glow had faded from her cheeks, replaced by something darker.