Chapter thirteen

Inside His Walls

Hazel had never seen a place so silent and yet so alive.

Aiden's apartment sat on the top floor of a stone-faced building tucked between

an old bookstore and an art gallery. It wasn't flashy.

It wasn't modern. But the moment Hazel stepped inside, something in her chest tightened.

It smelled like cedar, coffee, and something older — like paper and memory.

Dim light filtered in through heavy curtains.

The hardwood floors were scuffed with use, not carelessness.

Along one wall stood a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, some shelves double-stacked,

others half-empty, with small notepads or photos tucked between the spines.

It was quiet, but not cold.

She moved forward cautiously, like stepping through someone's mind.

Every item had weight: the old piano in the corner, the faint scent of cologne and

rain, a record player with a dusty jazz vinyl resting half out of its sleeve.

This wasn't just where Aiden lived.

This was where he remembered.

Her gaze drifted to the fireplace. There, resting against the mantel, sat a photo frame turned face-down.

Hazel's brows furrowed, curiosity prickling, but Aiden was already behind her, the

door clicking shut with finality. She turned, heart thudding faster than she liked.

He was watching her — not with hunger, not yet — but with that quiet intensity

that always made her feel like the only sound in the world.

"You don't let many people in here," she said softly.

His mouth tilted, but not into a smile. "No."

"And yet here I am."

"You're not just anyone."

She blinked. "You mean Emily."

"I mean you," he said, stepping closer.

The air between them thickened.

Hazel's fingers curled at her sides as he stopped in front of her.

Not touching, just there — his presence electric, like standing near lightning before it strikes.

"I don't know what this is," she whispered.

"Neither do I."

"But I can't breathe around you sometimes."

Aiden exhaled like she'd confessed something he'd been carrying too.

"Same," he said.

Then he reached for her — slowly, deliberately — and when his hand brushed the

side of her face, Hazel melted into the warmth of it.

He kissed her.

It started soft — a gentle press of lips that stole her breath — but deepened in seconds.

His hands slid into her hair, threading through it as if he needed to anchor himself.

She gasped softly, and he took that as invitation.

Their bodies moved together like instinct.

Hazel reached up, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, drawing him closer.

Aiden groaned against her mouth, the sound raw and low, and kissed her again — harder this time, full of things he hadn't said.

He turned them, backing her gently toward the wall.

Her back met cool plaster as his palm landed on the wall beside her head, caging her in without pressure.

She didn't feel trapped.

She felt wanted.

And it terrified her how badly she wanted it back.

His mouth moved to her jaw, her neck, tasting her skin like a man who remembered her from another life.

Hazel tilted her head, let her fingers trace the curve of his shoulder, the back of his

neck, felt the tension pulsing just beneath his skin.

This wasn't just desire.

It was grief. Memory. Need.

He kissed her like he wasn't sure if this was happening or if he'd wake up to find her gone.

Hazel moaned softly as he pressed closer, the heat between them igniting, but just

as it began to tip into something deeper—something dangerous—he slowed.

His forehead dropped to hers, their breath mingling.

"We can't," he murmured. "Not yet."

Hazel searched his face. "Why?"

"Because I won't touch you like you're her," he said. "And right now, I don't know where that line ends."

Hazel's chest rose and fell rapidly. "I'm not her."

"I know."

She took his hand, held it between both of hers.

"I dreamed about her," she said. "Last night. I was her."

He looked up sharply. "What did you see?"

"Us. A moment — something beautiful. And then Liam."

His jaw tightened.

"You've never told me what happened to her," Hazel said.

"And I won't. Not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because you're already too close to the fire," Aiden said, voice low.

"And there are things about that night that—if you remembered them—would put

you in more danger than you already know."

Hazel looked down at their hands. "You keep saying you want to protect me. But from what?"

He didn't answer. He stepped back instead.

"I'll get you something to wear," he said. "You can take the guest room. It's down the hall, first door on the left."

Hazel didn't move right away. The kiss still lingered on her lips like a secret.

The air around her still pulsed with something unsaid.

"Aiden," she called softly as he turned away.

He stopped, his back to her.

"Why me?" she asked. "Really?"

He hesitated.

And then — without looking back — he said:

"Because she wasn't supposed to die."

Then he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Hazel with her heart pounding and

the sense that the night had only just begun unraveling.