So what are we gonna do now? I ask.
He looks at me like I've just handed him a bomb wrapped in glitter.
We're still on the hood of Lana, the night pressing in soft and salty around us. The ocean keeps crashing below, stubborn and loud, like it's protesting the idea of ever being calm. The air is cold enough that my breath fogs, but Rowan's hand is warm in mine, thumb tracing lazy circles against my skin.
"For real?" he says. "You're asking me for a plan? Princess, I barely know what I'm eating tomorrow."
I roll my eyes. "I'm serious, Rowan."
"So am I. I live in constant chaos."
I elbow him in the ribs. He winces dramatically, then sobers when he sees my face.
"Oh," he says quietly. "You mean…now now." His eyes search mine. "After all this. After the field. After Maggy. After…everything."
"Yeah." I look away, out at the water. "We did the whole 'almost died, survived, got therapy, kissed a lot' thing. Now what?"
He leans back on his palms, staring up at the cloudy sky like he expects answers written between the stars.
"I don't know," he admits. "We…go to school? Do homework? You bully Shakespeare. I get yelled at for being late to practice. We eat disgusting cafeteria fries. You drag me to therapy homework. I drag you out of bed when you want to stay in it forever."
"That's your grand plan?" I ask. "Fries and bullying dead writers?"
He shrugs. "We live," he says. "One boring day at a time."
It sounds stupid.
It also sounds…right.
I chew on my bottom lip. "What if it stops being boring?" I ask. "What if it gets bad again?"
He doesn't flinch.
"Then we count," he says simply. "One to five. Ten if we have to. We text. We annoy Dr. K. We call G and Lany. We ask for help instead of burning for it." His eyes soften. "We don't do it alone anymore."
Something in my chest loosens.
"Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco," I murmur, more to myself than him.
He smirks. "Look at you, using my content."
"Your content?"
"I have lines on my arm for you, Jones," he reminds me. "I'm basically your emotional tattoo artist."
"Please never say that again," I groan.
His laugh is low and warm, curling around my ribs. For a second, the world shrinks to the sound of it and the steady beat of waves below us.
I take a breath.
"I'm scared," I admit.
He doesn't try to fix it.
"I know," he says. "Me too."
"Of what?" I ask.
He squints at the horizon like he's trying to find the right words.
"Of messing this up," he says eventually. "Of becoming that asshole who made the bet again. Of losing you. Of leaving and regretting it. Of staying and regretting it." He shrugs, tension hiding in the movement. "Of turning into my dad."
The honesty sits between us, raw and awkward.
"What about you?" he adds softly.
"Same," I say. "Plus…
I'm scared the next bad thing will prove everyone right. That I was always a problem. That surviving once was just luck. That I'll go back to the glass. That you'll realize I'm too much work."
His jaw tightens.
"Naira."
"What?"
"You are a lot of work," he says. "So am I. So is breathing. I'm still choosing it." He taps my wrist lightly. "And you, apparently, are still choosing to stay. That pisses fear off more than anything."
Fear.
That ugly, constant hum in my bones.
I picture it, throwing a tantrum every time I choose pancakes over pain, therapy over silence, a text over a burn.
Good.
Let it scream.
"Okay," I say quietly. "We live. We count. We annoy everyone. We don't do it alone."
"And," he says, pointing at me, "we do not skip your stupid play rehearsals, because I want to see you be Ekwefi and destroy everyone with your monologue."
I snort. "I don't have a monologue."
"You will," he says confidently. "You're you."
The words land somewhere deep, unexpected.
We fall into a silence that isn't empty. It's full—of all the things we've lived through in such a short time, and all the things we haven't faced yet.
"Rowan?" I say after a while.
"Yeah?"
"If something comes up with the case…" I swallow. "Like, court, or the police, or school hearings…will you be there? Even if they drag up every detail?"
His answer is immediate.
"Every time they say her name, I'll be saying yours louder," he says. "You're not standing in front of them alone."
A shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
"And if your dad shows up?" he asks, voice gentle.
My stomach flips.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "But I'm not eight anymore. And I'm not alone anymore either."
He nods, like that's enough for now.
I let myself lean sideways until my shoulder presses into his. He shifts so his arm slips around me, pulling me closer. My head finds that familiar spot against his chest, right over his heartbeat.
We sit like that, watching the waves punch the shore and pull back again.
"These poor rocks," I murmur. "They're just existing and the water keeps attacking them."
"Maybe the rocks like it," he says. "Maybe they're stubborn as hell. 'Hit me again, I dare you.'"
I snort. "You would relate to a rock."
"And you'd relate to the ocean," he shoots back. "Chaotic. Dramatic. Dangerous when ignored."
He's not wrong.
We watch the horizon blur as the last of the light drains away, turning everything a soft, in‑between blue.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Mom. A text:
You okay, baby? Don't stay out too late. Love you.
Below it, another one pops up from the group chat Gali created and obnoxiously named Nightfall's Finest:
G: send location rn or I call the cops Lany: tell Rowan if he makes you cry I'm shaving his head while he sleeps
I can't help the laugh that slips out.
"Let me guess," Rowan says. "Death threats?"
"Emotional support," I correct. "Aggressive version."
He grins. "Our favorite kind."
I text back one‑handed, my other still wrapped in his.
Me: I'm okay. With Rowan. No bleachers, promise. Be home soon.
Three dots appear from G almost instantly.
G: okay but bring snacks or don't bother coming back
I shake my head.
"G says if I don't bring snacks, I'm homeless," I report.
"She'd move you into my house before she let that happen," Rowan says.
He's probably right.
I tuck my phone away, inhale the cold air, and let the moment settle.
This isn't some movie ending. There's no dramatic score swelling, no closing credits rolling over a perfect kiss.
There's me.
Scarred thigh. Bruised jaw. Heart that won't shut up.
There's him.
Split lip. Faded bruises. A history of bad choices and a future he hasn't decided on yet.
There's this stupid town with its beach houses and rumors and murals and bleachers and classrooms that smell like old paper and new beginnings.
And there's the question that started all of this, still whispering at the back of my mind.
What does love feel like?
Right now, it feels like this:
Cold air. Warm hoodie. A boy's heartbeat under my ear. Tiny blue dashes on my wrist. A field that used to be a crime scene and is slowly, stubbornly becoming just a field again.
It feels like the world might still try to break me.
But I'm not planning on going quietly.
Rowan shifts, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
"Ready to head back, Brooklyn?" he murmurs.
"No," I say honestly. "But let's go anyway."
He smiles. "Story of our lives."
We climb off the hood together. He folds the blanket, tossing it into the back seat. I take one last look at the dark stretch of field in the distance, the faint outline of the bleachers, the invisible phoenix painted somewhere inside my ribs.
This isn't over.
The case. The whispers. The healing. My dad's shadow. Rowan's future.
There's so much coming that I can't see yet.
But as I slide into the passenger seat and Rowan starts the engine, as the headlights cut through the Nightfall darkness and the radio hums something soft and new between us, I realize something simple and terrifying and beautiful.
I want to find out what happens next.
Not just with him.
With me.
The car rolls forward, leaving the empty stadium behind.
Out the window, the ocean keeps moving.
So do we.
And somewhere ahead—beyond courtrooms and classrooms and late‑night windows and therapy couches and stadium lights—Future Me is waiting.
Maybe she's not a phoenix.
Maybe she's not a raccoon.
Maybe she's just Naira.
I don't know her yet.
But for the first time, I'm driving toward her on purpose.
"What are you smirking at?" Rowan asks, glancing over.
"Nothing," I say, turning my gaze back to the road.
"What does love feel like, then?" he teases.
I let the question sit there, warm and heavy and familiar.
"Ask me again in a few books," I say. "I'm still figuring it out."
He laughs, the sound mixing with the engine and the waves and my own pulse.
"Deal," he says.
We turn toward home.
The story isn't finished.
It's just finally starting to be mine.