Page 30 of Shared Obsession

It’s Friday. My dad is picking me up from school today. That’s weird—Mom always does it. Every day, like clockwork. When I walk up to the curb, Dad’s car is there, engine running, windows rolled up tight. My stomach sinks, but I tell myself it’s nothing. I toss my backpack into the back seat, sliding into the front for the first time—finally thirteen, finally "old enough." But the air inside is cold, stale with something sour and sharp. My dad stares straight ahead at the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He doesn’t even look at me.

“Daddy?” My voice is small, barely more than a whisper. The question trembles at the edge of my throat. Something is wrong. He feels like a stranger—colder, harder than usual. At first, he just sits there, face set like stone, eyes fixed forward, impossible to read. I fidget in my seat, waiting for him to say something, anything. Then, without looking at me, he says, flat and empty: “Your mom is dead.”

The words hit like a brick, heavy and unreal. I stare at him, mind blank, the world narrowing to the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. He doesn’t soften, doesn’t explain, just shifts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb. He drives right past the turn for home. My panic spikes. “Where are we going? What are you talking about? Dad?”

He keeps driving, eyes locked on the road. “Your mom’s dead. Lost control of the car. Went off the highway and rolled down the rocks.” His voice is flat, almost rehearsed, like he’s reading from a script. No grief, no comfort—just cold, clinical fact.

I sit there, numb, devastation threatening to swallow me whole—but a colder, sicker realization creeps in: I’m alone with him now. My body tenses, every instinct screaming danger. I stare out the window, watching the houses blur by, my breath turning shallow, my hands gripping the seatbelt so tight my knuckles ache.

“Daddy… where are we going?”

He still doesn’t look at me. His hand leaves the wheel and runs up my thigh—too high, too slow. His voice is flat, almost eager, and it makes my skin crawl. “The castle clubhouse. You’re going to love it.”

The way he says it chills me to the bone. Dread twists in my stomach, sharp and cold—a warning I can’t escape.

I jolt awake to Alex’s voice, his shadow sitting on the edge of my bed. “Ayla,wake up. It’s just a dream.” I’m shaking so hard I can’t breathe, can’t even think. My vision is a blur, and it takes me a second to realize it’s because I’m crying—hot, silent tears streaming down my cheeks.

Alex doesn’t rush me. He just waits, voice soft and steady: “Ayla. You’re safe. You’re here with me.”

He reaches to cup my face, but I flinch, shying away, my voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t touch. Please.” My throat is raw, the words an apology and a plea tangled together, shame and fear burning in my chest.

He doesn’t pull back. He just lets his hands fall open in his lap, palms up. “That’s okay. Can you give me your hands? Just your hands. Trust me.”

My hands tremble as I offer them, still not meeting his eyes. He takes them gently, grounding me, his grip steady and warm. He doesn’t push, doesn’t hurry—just waits, letting me set the pace. “Let’s start here,” he says, voice low. “Tell me what you see, Ayla. Just the basics.”

My eyes flick around the room—anywhere but his face. “My hands. Your hands. The blanket. Your tattoos. The curtains,” I murmur, voice hoarse. As I talk, my breathing slows a little, the panic loosening its grip, the world coming back into focus.

He nods, squeezing my hands. “Good. What do you hear?”

“Your voice. The generator. My breathing.”

“And what can you smell?”

A shaky smile tugs at my lips. “You. Laundry soap. Rain.”

He moves closer, but still gives me space, his eyes never leaving mine. “That’s right. You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you, Ayla. As long as it takes. I promise.” His voice is a low, steady anchor, and for the first time since I woke up, I feel my body start to settle—a bone-deep calm that only he seems able to bring me.

Gradually, I lean into him, letting his arms wrap around me. He holds me close, one hand stroking slow circles through my hair, the other holding my hand against his heart so I can feel the steady beat. “You’re okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight, not ever unless you ask me to.”

There’s something about Alex that makes me feel seen, vulnerable in a way I never let myself be before. I’ve never wanted to let someone in so badly, never trusted anyone to hold me together. Right now, I need Alex’s arms, the warmth and strength of him anchoring me after the nightmare. For once, I let myself relax, letting Alex hold me close, breathing in the quiet reassurance of not being alone. Just this—just us—until the sun comes up.

Chapter Sixteen

Alexander

I'm sitting on the front porch, the late afternoon sun painting the cabin in gold. There's a chill in the air that wasn't there before—a reminder that fall is gone and winter is coming soon. The leaves have mostly fallen, leaving the trees bare, and the breeze bites a little sharper with every passing day. It won't be long before the cold settles in for good, but for now, I savor these last golden hours, watching the world change around us.

Dean's inside, combing through Nathan, Derek, and Charles's emails for anything that might help us find a way out for Ayla. Honestly, it feels impossible most days. The water out front is finally going down, but honestly, it’s going to be a while still before we can even think about leaving. This isn’t the first time a storm’s cut off access to the cabin, although it's not usually this bad, and we all know the routine: the bridge out front gets washed out, the roads flood, and nobody’s coming or going until the county finally clears everything. Maybe by next month we’ll have a shot, but for now, it’s just us and the woods. Not that Ayla can risk being seen, even if the road was open. It feels like we’re holding her hostage, but the truth is, she seems more than happy to be here. She gets it—why we’re stuck, why this place is both shield and cage. We talked about it this morning in bed. She might be a prisoner in some ways, but if you ask me, she’s enjoying her sentence. Hell, maybe we all are.

I head back inside and spot Ayla curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. She looks content, if a little worn out—there’s a softness to her that wasn’t there before, but also shadows under her eyes from last night. Her nightmare was brutal; her screams were loud enough to wake both Dean and me. I was already in the room with her, so Dean slipped out, not wanting to crowd her. I don’t know what haunted her dreams, but pain like that—those kinds of cries—is caused by the kind of pain that shatters a person's soul.

I settle beside her, careful not to startle her. “What are you watching?” I ask gently.

She shrugs, a faint smile on her lips. “Oh, I don’t know. I just put on the first thing that popped up. Some old romance movie. I don’t even think I’m paying attention.”

Before I can reply, Zayn drops into the armchair with a dramatic sigh. “Oh shit, I love this movie,” he says, completely unbothered, and Ayla laughs—a sound I’m relieved to hear.

A beat later, Dean’s voice calls out from the other room: “Alex, Ayla—come here. I think you need to see this.”