11 | Ghosts of us

"I hate that I'm still hoping."

Willa

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

The night air is sharp, a touch too cold against my skin. I tug my jacket tighter around me, but it doesn't help much. My body still hums with leftover adrenaline from ballet practice, my muscles aching in that familiar, satisfying way. Normally, the ache would ground me, soothe me. Tonight, it just makes me restless.

I flick through cab apps on my phone, the screen's glow casting faint shadows across my hands. None of them seem to be working, or maybe I just don't have the patience to wait for one to show up. My fingers tap anxiously against the side of my phone, my thoughts tangled and frayed.

Ballet is supposed to clear my head, to drown out the noise, but today, it didn't work. My mind is still too cluttered, too chaotic. Like no matter how hard I try, I can't piece everything together. And maybe—maybe I don't even want to.

The streetlights flicker, humming softly above me. The sidewalks are mostly empty this late, the town settling into its usual sleepy quiet.

I glance around, waiting for the distant rumble of an approaching car, the flash of headlights, something—anything—to break up the stillness.

But then, I round the corner.

And I stop.

My pulse stumbles over itself, and I nearly drop my phone.

Dominic.

He leans against his motorcycle, half-illuminated by the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp. His short brown hair is ruffled, his ever-present leather jacket slouched over his broad shoulders, and his brown eyes—God, his eyes—catch the fading light just enough to make my breath hitch.

He looks like he belongs here, waiting in the shadows.

Waiting for me.

My heart beats too fast, too loud. I don't know why I'm just standing here, staring at him like I forgot how to move. There's something about Dom, something magnetic, something that always pulls me in—even when I don't want it to.

I swallow hard, forcing my feet forward. "What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.

He watches me for a second, unreadable, before pushing off his bike with that effortless grace he always has. "I'm offering you a ride home." His voice is low, even, but there's something beneath it—something careful, cautious.

Like he knows I might say no.

Like he doesn't want me to.

I blink, thrown off. "What? Why?"

"You were just gonna stand here, waiting for a cab?" His lips twitch, the barest ghost of a smirk, like this whole situation is amusing to him. "Come on, Butterfly. I'm saving you from the tragic, slow death that is our town's public transportation system."

The nickname.

Of course he had to use it.

I roll my eyes to cover the way my stomach flips, shifting my weight onto one foot. "Right. And what's in it for you? A free show? You gonna make me your next damsel in distress?"

His smirk deepens, but there's something else in his expression, something almost... fond. "I think you've already got that handled, Willa."

I hate the way my chest tightens. The way he still does this to me—still gets under my skin like no time has passed at all.

I should say no. I should turn around, find another way home, pretend like he doesn't still have this effect on me.

But the sun has almost set, my cab apps aren't working, and despite everything—despite the two years of anger, hurt, and betrayal lodged in my ribs—I've never not felt safe with Dom.

Maybe he's trying.

Maybe.

I exhale sharply, tilting my head at him. "Fine. But if you try anything weird, I swear to God, I will knock you off that bike so fast you won't even know what hit you."

Dom chuckles, reaching for his spare helmet and handing it to me. "That's the spirit."

I hesitate for half a second before taking it, strapping it on as he swings his leg over the bike. When I climb on behind him, there's an awkward moment where I don't know where to put my hands.

I settle for gripping the edge of the seat, but as soon as the bike rumbles to life, I realize how stupid that is. The second we lurch forward, I have no choice but to grab onto him.

His body is warm, solid beneath my hands. The scent of leather and cigarette smoke lingers faintly on his jacket, and I hate how familiar it is.

How easy it is to fall back into this.

We speed through the streets, the town fading behind us, swallowed by the winding roads leading up the hills. The ride is smooth, the cool night air

rushing past, sending strands of my blonde hair whipping against my helmet.

I should be focused on where we're going, but instead, all I can think about is the way Dom moves, the way he leans into the curves like he was made for this.

Like he belongs to the road more than he belongs to anyone.

We keep climbing, higher and higher, until suddenly, the trees part, revealing a breathtaking view of the city spread out below us. An overlook.

The stars above are faint, outshined by the glow of streetlights and buildings sprawling into the distance. It's beautiful.

And I hate that he brought me here.

Because it means something.

Dom cuts the engine, the sudden silence pressing in around us. He doesn't move to get off the bike, and neither do I. We just sit there, the weight of everything unspoken settling between us.

He turns on the bike, his gaze fixed on me, unwavering. Slowly, he reaches out, his fingers grazing the edge of my helmet before flipping the visor up. The cool night air rushes in, but it's nothing compared to the way his eyes lock onto mine—steady, searching.

I don't look at him. Not directly. Instead, I focus on the glossy black of his helmet, on the familiar shape of his face that I know by heart. Because if I meet his eyes, I'm afraid of what I'll find there. Or worse—what I won't.

The words slip out before I can stop them.

"Why'd you leave that night?"

The question hangs in the air.

I don't know why I asked it. I wasn't supposed to bring it up. I wasn't supposed to care.

But I do.

Dom's jaw tightens. He exhales through his nose, staring straight ahead like he's waiting for the right words to come.

"If I could change it, I would," he finally says.

And maybe that should be enough.

But it's not.

"It doesn't help," I whisper, barely audible.

He turns then, his eyes meeting mine, dark and unreadable. "I should've told you," he murmurs. "But I couldn't stay. Not when things were like that."

Like that.

The words dig into my skin, but I don't even know what they mean.

And maybe that's the worst part.

I shiver, but not from the cold.

Because in the two years since he left, I've done somersaults off cliffs, gotten into my first accident, taken my first shot of vodka, turned eighteen.

I've grown up.

And so did the girl who thought love was enough to fix everything.

I don't know anymore.

I don't know if we can be fixed.

Maybe we end here.

My heart is so, so tired.

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

guys im still so sick UGHHHH

also I know a lot of people might have some reservations about Logan, so I'm going to say the same thing I answered with to one of you angels who asked on my announcement board why Logan seems like a bad person.

When writing this book I was so hesitant on making Logan seem like a bad father/person, but for his growth I knew it would have to happen. Dom was his first child and Logan, who grew up with a father but without the tenderness and love of a real one he would have trouble trying to do right by his own kid. I know this seems like an excuse but his own trauma just runs so deep in him, and he does not want to make Dom hate him when subconsciously that's what he is doing by staying away and trying to make Dom into the best possible version of himself. There's so much more to this explanation but I've cut it short and given u guys the brunt of it.

Btw I would NEVER EVER tear Logan and Gracie apart, they deserve their happy ending.