The door clicked shut behind Willow, the sound sharp in the door, like a key turning in a lock that held more than just the outside world at bay. He twisted the deadbolt, habit born of city caution, then kicked off his sneakers, the rubber soles thumping softly against the baseboard. The hallway smelled of old wood and faint traces of his mother's afternoon tea, chamomile lingering like a gentle ghost. "Home," he muttered, voice barely carrying as he slid out of his shoes.

  From the office down the hall, Dana's reply drifted out, warm but threaded with the clack of keyboard keys. "Hey, kiddo. Dinner's in the fridge if you're hungry."

  Willow didn't respond, his feet carrying him past the living room where the new sofa sat, its cushions still plump and unyielding, a recent purchase that screamed normalcy in a world that had forgotten how to be ordinary. He pushed into his bedroom, the door creaking on hinges that needed oil, and peeled off his sweater, letting it puddle on the floor like discarded skin. The bed welcomed him with a soft groan as he flopped down, arms spread, eyes locking onto the ceiling. Cracks spiderwebbed across the plaster, faint lines that looked like veins in some ancient, forgotten stone. He stared, unblinking, as Dominic's words sank in, slow and inevitable as ink bleeding into paper.

  This was him. Forever. No more growth spurts, no filling out the edges of his frame, no lines etching around his eyes from years he wouldn't live. Stasis, like a bug trapped in amber, preserved but unchanging. The thought twisted in his gut, not panic exactly, more a quiet unraveling. How old was Dominic, then? That golden gaze had held weight, layers of time stacked like hidden scrolls in a library no one visited. And the Wyverns, they had backed off tonight, but would that hold? Gangs like that didn't strike him as the type to forget a scent once they caught it. They might circle back, probing, when the city grew bored and needed new entertainment. Or maybe they would leave him be, a small fish in a vast, shadowed ocean. Either way, the hidden world tugged harder now, its threads woven into his skin, pulling him from the simple rhythms of school and sleep.

  Time slipped by, minutes blurring into the dim light filtering through the window, streetlamps outside humming to life with a faint buzz. He didn't move, body heavy yet weightless, the ache from training fading into a distant hum. Spectral blue still echoed in his veins, a cool pulse reminding him of spears hurled in an alley, chains coiling like loyal serpents. But now, in the quiet, it all felt distant, a dream overlaid on reality.

  A soft shuffle at the doorframe broke the spell. Dana stood there, arms crossed loosely, her glasses perched on her nose, reflecting the hallway light. She had changed into her comfortable sweater, the one with frayed cuffs from years of late-night reading. "You okay in there? Been quiet."

  Willow paused, words forming like reluctant smoke. "No more eating. No drinking. Don't age. Can't change. Opposite midlife crisis." His eyes stayed glued to the ceiling, the cracks seeming deeper now, as if they mocked his stillness.

  Dana didn't gasp or fuss. She crossed the room in a few steps, the floorboards creaking under her, and sat on the bed's edge. The mattress dipped, pulling him slightly toward her warmth. Silence wrapped around them for a moment, thick and companionable, then her hand found his, fingers interlacing with a gentle squeeze. She lay back beside him, her head on the pillow, exhaling a small breath that stirred the air. "How'd you figure that out?"

  "Really hot guy told me." Deadpan, flat as pavement, even as the gravity pressed down.

  She paused, then squeezed again, her thumb tracing a small circle on his skin. "I don't know how to wrap my head around you staying like this forever. Scrawny, smooth-faced, eternal teenager. But I'll always love you. Even if you never sprout that scruffy beard you keep joking about."

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  They both sighed, breaths syncing in the dim room, releasing the absurdity like steam from a cooling pot. The world outside murmured, a car horn distant and irrelevant, the city carrying on without them.

  Then, breaking the quiet, Dana shifted slightly. "Want some ice cream? There's mint chocolate chip in the freezer."

  Willow blinked once, slow as a camera shutter, then turned his head to look at her. In the whirlwind of the past week, shadows attacking, powers blooming, gangs sniffing around, she remained the anchor. Mundane, human, no spectral glow or ancient pacts. Kimona channeled ancestors, her family guarded veils between worlds, Wyverns hunted with dragon fire in their veins, and he twisted wishes into tragedies. But Dana? Just mom, with her archaeology books and endless curiosity about dead languages. The only piece of his old life that hadn't shattered into something strange. "Yeah. Ice cream sounds good."

  They rose together, padding to the kitchen where the fluorescent light buzzed softly overhead, casting a warm glow on the counters. Dana pulled bowls from the cabinet, the clink of ceramic familiar, then scooped generous heaps from the carton, the spoon scraping with a satisfying rasp. Mint mingled with chocolate in the air, cool and sweet, a scent that pulled at memories of simpler evenings. She slid a bowl across the table to him, grabbing her own before sitting opposite.

  "So," she said, spoon dipping in, "this hot guy. Spill."

  Willow leaned back in his chair, scooping a bite, the cold melting on his tongue, unnecessary but comforting. "Probably bad news. Acted honorable, though. Challenged me to a fight to size me up, but didn't push when he could have. Not a bad person, I think. But gangsters aren't exactly role models."

  Dana's brow arched, spoon pausing mid-air. "Gangster? As in, actual gang?"

  He shrugged, another bite sliding down, the chill grounding him. "Supernatural kind. Dragon patches on their jackets. Don't worry about it. They backed off."

  She watched him for a moment, eyes searching his face, then nodded, resuming her eating. The kitchen clock ticked softly, a steady rhythm against the quiet. Willow let the flavors linger, unnecessary fuel for a body that no longer hungered, but the ritual felt right, a thread connecting to before.

  Halfway through the bowl, he set his spoon down, the metal clinking lightly. "About the wishes. We tested it. Me and Kimona. She wished for a branch, something small. Bird flew into a tree, broke its wing, branch fell. Monkey's paw, like you said."

  Dana's expression softened, no surprise there, just a quiet absorption. She pushed her bowl aside, leaning forward. "Twisted. Always twisted."

  He took a deep breath, meeting her eyes, the blue of his reflecting in her steady gaze. "Tell me about him. Not what he is. Who."

  She smiled softly, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes, and leaned back, memories surfacing like artifacts from sand. "Azhar. Where to start? He was theater incarnate, Willow. Every gesture a performance, every word laced with drama. Passion poured out of him, like he couldn't contain it. Flamboyant, yes, with that thick accent rolling off his tongue, mixing English with Lebanese phrases that made everything sound like poetry. Ya hayati, he'd say, my life, turning a simple hello into something epic. Curiosity drove him, endless, about everything. People, places, the way light hit a building at dawn. He turned moments into stage plays, pulling you in, making the ordinary feel like a grand act."

  Willow listened, spoon idle in his bowl, the ice cream softening to soup. Images formed, a man like an older version of himself, lithe and handsome, eyes sparkling with ancient mischief.

  He poked at the melting remnants, spoon stirring slow circles. "Ya wayli, no wonder I'm gay."

  Dana laughed, bright and sudden, the sound filling the kitchen like sunlight breaking clouds. She reached across, ruffling his hair. "You’re literally opposites."

  Willow allowed a small grin, the first crack in his deadpan shell since the alley. The laughter faded into comfortable quiet, bowls empty now, the cold sweetness a fleeting comfort against the eternal stretch ahead. Outside, rain began to patter against the window, soft taps like fingers drumming on glass, the city washing itself clean. But inside, in this pocket of normal, Willow felt the weight lift, just a little. Stasis loomed, unchanging and vast, but here, with her, it felt manageable, a story still unfolding, one scoop at a time.