(Homecoming approaches. Kade is invited. And Viera won't take no for an answer.)
Two Months Later
He didn't look like a ghost anymore.
No dark bruises blooming beneath his skin. No medical tape on his ribs. No bandages on his arms.
Kade was whole again.
At least on the outside.
He'd gone back to school two weeks ago.
It was quiet, mostly.
People stared, sure—but no one said anything to his face. Not after what Viera did to Logan's nose. Not after she made Maya cry in front of the entire cafeteria with nothing but five words:
"Say it again. I dare you."
There was power in who stood beside you.
And now?
Kade had her.
Viera (Wednesday, after 6th period)
She found him by the lockers, leaned back with a sketchpad in hand.
He was drawing again.
Not for school. Not for anyone. Just… drawing. Ink smudged his fingertips. His sleeves were rolled. His hair a little longer than before. Messy in that I don't try but somehow still look good way.
She hated how fast her heart still went when she saw him.
Actually, no. She loved it.
"Hey," she said, dropping her bag beside his feet.
"Hey." He didn't look up yet, still shading the edge of what looked like a raven's wing.
"You busy Saturday?"
"Why?" He glanced up then, brow raised. "You got another movie night planned? Or are we doing that 'make cookies, burn cookies, order pizza' thing again?"
She smirked. "You say that like you didn't eat twelve burnt ones last time."
"They had… texture."
"That's not a defense."
"It is when you have no shame."
She laughed, tugged gently at the edge of his sketchpad until he gave her his full attention.
His eyes softened.
"Seriously, though. What's up?"
She leaned against the locker beside him, tone casual. "Homecoming's this weekend."
He blinked. "Oh. Yeah. I forgot."
"No you didn't," she said, grinning. "You're just trying to pretend it's not happening."
He shrugged. "Maybe."
A pause.
She nudged his shoulder. "So? You coming with me?"
"Vi."
"Don't 'Vi' me."
"I'm not exactly the… y'know… dancing type."
She tilted her head. "Oh? But you'll let me tickle you until you sound like a tea kettle—but dancing is where you draw the line?"
His face flushed immediately. "That's not public."
She leaned in, eyes glinting. "So if I promised not to tickle you on the dance floor…"
He groaned. "You're impossible."
"And you're adorable. So we're going, right?"
He was quiet for a moment.
Long enough that her smile faltered just slightly.
But then—
He said, softly:
"People are gonna stare."
"I know."
"Some of them still think I should've disappeared."
"I know that too."
"You don't care?"
"Nope."
He studied her.
And something in him let go.
That last thread of fear.
That last piece of the old Kade, the one who flinched from light and looked for exits in every room.
"Alright," he said, voice just above a whisper. "Let's go to Homecoming."
Saturday Night – The Dance
The gym had been transformed.
String lights and streamers. A DJ. A photo booth.
And in the middle of all of it?
Her.
Viera.
Wearing a blood-red dress that fit her like a threat and a promise.
When Kade walked in—black shirt, sleeves rolled, simple slacks—he didn't expect to see every single head turn.
But they did.
He felt it.
The collective who the hell let him in here buzz.
The heat of old whispers reigniting.
But then—
Viera broke through the crowd and wrapped her arms around his waist like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"You're late," she said, pretending to pout.
"I was busy overthinking my hair."
She snorted. "You look hot. Don't let it go to your head."
He kissed her cheek. "No promises."
They didn't dance at first.
Just stood in the back.
Watched the flashing lights. Drank watered-down punch. Mocked the music.
But then a slow song started.
And Viera, without warning, grabbed his hand.
Pulled him onto the floor.
"Nope," he said immediately, resisting.
She turned. "C'mon. Just one."
"I don't know how."
"You think I do? We're both winging it."
She took both his hands.
Placed them on her waist.
Then slid her own to his shoulders.
"There. See? Easy."
He didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
She could feel his heart pounding under his shirt.
They moved slowly.
Barely a sway.
But it was enough.
Enough to feel the warmth between them.
Enough to say: We survived.
Then she leaned in and whispered:
"I'm proud of you, y'know."
"For what?"
"For still being here."
And he didn't answer.
But his hand tightened at her waist.
And his forehead fell against hers.
And that?
That was enough.
End of Chapter 11
Next: Chapter 12 – Soft Targets