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The bass from the car speakers still vibrates in the damp August air, competing with the crackle of dry pine branches collapsing into the fire pit at The Dells. Sparks rise toward the starless Massachusetts sky, catching the sharp angles of Reid Garwin’s face as he leans against the rusted bed of a pickup. He rolls a red plastic cup between his palms, his shoulders loose, soaked in the easy confidence of a seventeen-year-old who knows he is untouchable.
A few feet away, Caleb Danvers and Pogue Parry frame the edge of the clearing like sentinels, but Reid’s attention is fixed entirely on the new faces in the crowd. Sarah Wenham stands near the tree line, looking slightly out of place in her crisp jacket, flanked by Chase Collins, the transfer student with the carefully blank expression.
Reid flashes a lazy, easy grin, stepping forward. He tilts his head, letting his voice drop into a performative, theatrical purr. "You know, Sarah’s my grandmother’s name," he says, eyes bright with immediate, mindless mischief. "You kind of remind me of her."
He expects the chuckle from Pogue and a sharp, grounding roll of the eyes from Caleb. What he doesn't notice—what he completely misses in the haze of smoke, laughter, and his own harmless performance—is the absolute silence that falls over Tyler Simms. Standing just a arm's length behind him, Tyler stops mid-sip. His jaw sets, a muscle twitching violently beneath his tanned skin. His hands pull tight into the pockets of his hoodie. He doesn't roll his eyes. He doesn't laugh. He glares at the back of Reid’s neck with a cold, simmering fury that makes the air right around him feel thin and brittle.
Before Sarah can even form a polite response, red and blue lights pulse through the dense canopy of trees up the trail. The wail of a siren cuts through the music, instantly shattering the party.
"Cops!" someone yells, and the clearing explodes into chaotic motion.
Drinks drop into the dirt, sneakers slide over wet autumn leaves, and teenagers scatter into the brush like birds. Reid snaps out of his suave posture instantly, falling into step beside Caleb, Pogue, and Tyler, with Sarah, Kate, and Chase moving in a hurried pack right behind them. They move with the synchronized ease of brothers who have spent their whole lives running through these exact woods. They break through the treeline onto the gravel pulling area where the cars are parked.
"Get to the cars! Go!" Caleb orders, his voice steady even in the rush.
Sarah, Kate, and Chase scramble toward Sarah's sedan. The engine cranks—a pathetic, mechanical whine—and then dies. The ignition clicks uselessly as the patrol cars crest the hill, headlights sweeping over the gravel.
Reid darts over to the driver's side of Sarah's car, tapping the hood. "Hold on," he mutters. He glances back, making sure the cops are still blocked by the bend, and reaches under the frame. He closes his eyes for half a second. Beneath his eyelids, a bright, fiery pulse of orange light flares—the heat of the Power crackling beneath his skin, bending metal and shifting spark plugs back into alignment with a whisper of raw energy.
The engine instantly roars to life.
"Go! Get out of here!" Reid shouts, slapping the hood. Chase steps on the gas, the sedan peeling out into the night just as the first police cruiser skids onto the gravel.
Reid turns and sprint-leaps through the open window of Caleb's Pontiac GTO, landing heavily in the back seat right beside Tyler. The tires scream against the asphalt as Caleb guns it. Reid catches his breath, a triumphant, adrenaline-fueled smirk plastering itself across his face.
He turns to Tyler, shoving his shoulder playfully. "Did you see that?"
Tyler doesn't look back. He faces the side window, his reflection illuminated by the passing streetlamps. His profile is hardened into marble, his shoulders locked tight, refusing to yield an inch of warmth. Reid’s grin falters. The excitement in his chest curdles into a knot of confusion and subtle panic.
"Ty?" he mutters softly, but Tyler only glowers out at the passing trees, his knuckles white where he grips his knees.
There is no time to figure it out. Red lights flood the back window. The cruiser is right on their bumper.
"Caleb," Pogue says from the passenger seat, his voice tight. "We're out of road."
Ahead, the asphalt abruptly ends, giving way to the sheer drop of the Ipswich cliffs. The ocean crashes against the jagged rocks hundreds of feet below.
"Hold on," Caleb says grimly.
The four of them lean forward. The atmosphere inside the car changes instantly—the air turning ice-cold, heavy with the terrifying weight of their shared lineage. Reid pushes his personal confusion aside and taps into the reservoir deep in his chest. Across the car, four pairs of eyes lose their color, bleeding into absolute, endless black as the Power takes over. The GTO tears over the edge of the cliff, launching into empty space. Gravity catches them for a fraction of a second, the car suspended between the black sky and the dark ocean.
Reid thrusts his head out the window, the wind tearing at his hair, and screams over the roar of the engine and the abyss: "Harry Potter can kiss my ass!"
The police cruisers slam on their brakes at the edge of the bluff, tires spraying gravel into the dark. Two officers scramble out, flashlights drawn, rushing to the wooden barrier. They beam their lights down into the churning, black surf below, searching for twisted metal, floating debris, anything.
There is nothing. Only the sound of waves hitting rock. Behind them, a heavy *thud* rattles the pavement. The officers spin around. Caleb’s GTO sits calmly on the asphalt thirty yards behind the police car, perfectly intact, engine idling with a deep, mechanical purr. Through the rear windshield, four figures sit motionless. The officers freeze, paralyzed by absolute disbelief, their flashlights trembling in their hands.
Caleb shifts into reverse, slams his foot on the gas, and the car spins a tight J-turn, leaving a cloud of burning rubber before shooting back down the road into the safety of the night. Inside the car, Pogue lets out a wild, tearing whoop, slapping the dashboard. "Hell yeah!" Caleb lets out a breathless laugh, checking the rearview mirror. In the back seat, however, the silence is deafening. Reid shifts in his seat, waiting for the inevitable shove, the sarcastic punch to the arm, the usual teasing from Tyler about his ridiculous pop-culture pop off.
He turns to him, opening his mouth. "Come on, Potter was funny."
Tyler doesn't even look at him. He keeps his gaze locked squarely on the back of Caleb's headrest, his jaw clenching so hard a vein throbs at his temple. He's still simmering, radiating a quiet, dangerous heat that tells Reid everything he needs to know: this isn't about the car, and it isn't about the cops.
The adrenaline of the escape fades into a heavy, exhausting silence by the time the GTO pulls up the long, gravel driveway of the Danvers estate. The headlights cut off, plunging the yard into shadows. Pogue’s motorcycle sits parked near the side garage. Next door, barely visible through the thick line of oak trees, the faint lights of the Simms house bleed through the dark. Tyler’s home. Reid lingers on the pavement, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his jeans. Usually, there’s no question about where he’s sleeping. Tyler’s mom works the late shift at the hospital three nights a week, leaving the house quiet and empty, and Reid practically lives there on the weekends. But tonight, standing in the cool night air, Reid hesitates, hovering near the rear bumper like a ghost.
Pogue swings a leg over his bike, pulling his helmet onto his handlebars. "Thanks for the ride, man," he says, nodding at Caleb.
"All right. Take it easy," Caleb replies, leaning against his car door, his eyes scanning Reid and Tyler with quiet, perceptive concern before deciding to leave it alone.
"I’ll see you later, man," Pogue adds, kicking the starter.
"Call me in the morning," Caleb says.
The motorcycle roars to life, kicking up dust as Pogue heads down the drive. Caleb turns without another word, climbing the front steps of his house and letting the heavy wooden door click shut behind him. That leaves the two of them. Reid stands under the pale yellow glow of the driveway lamp, watching Tyler walk toward his own front porch. Tyler gets to the top step, his hand resting on the screen door handle. He pauses.
He doesn't turn around fully, just tilts his head back, gesturing with a sharp, rigid flick of his chin. He’s telling Reid to follow. Reid exhales a breath he feels like he’s been holding since The Dells, crossing the grass and following Tyler up the steps and into the quiet house. The screen door clicks shut. The moment the main door seals behind them, Tyler turns around. He doesn't cross his arms. He stands tall, his breathing heavy, his face twisted in a sneer of pure mock-sweetness.
"'You know, Sarah’s my grandmother’s name,'" Tyler says, his voice a sickeningly accurate, pitched-up imitation of Reid's flirtatious drawl. "'You kind of remind me of her.'" The mocking tone vanishes instantly, dropped like a lead weight. Tyler steps into Reid’s personal space, his eyes flashing with a spark of violent blue—the Power threatening to break through his control. "What the fuck, Reid?"
Reid winces, taking a half-step back, raising his hands defensively. "Relax, Ty. Jesus. She has eyes for Caleb anyway, everybody saw it—"
"Don't tell me to relax, dipshit!" Tyler snaps, his voice crackling with raw electricity. The lamp on the hallway table flickers violently once, twice, responding to the surge in his blood. Tyler takes another step, pinning Reid with an intense, agonized stare. "Do you know how goddamn isolating it is when you do shit like this?"
The words hit Reid like a physical blow. The defensive posture drops from Reid’s shoulders. The slick, effortless mask he wears around everyone else shatters completely, leaving him looking smaller, younger, and suddenly very bare.
He looks at Tyler—really looks at him—and sees the hurt buried beneath the anger. It’s not about Sarah. It never was. It’s about standing in a crowd of people, surrounded by noise and firelight, and watching the person you love act like you don't exist to play a role for everyone else. It’s about the silence Tyler has to keep every single day at Spenser Academy, hiding who they are, while Reid plays the carefree, flirty bachelor for an audience that doesn't matter.
"Ty..." Reid’s voice is soft now, completely devoid of swagger. He swallows hard, reaching out a tentative hand, though he doesn't quite touch Tyler’s arm. "I'm sorry. I really am."
Tyler doesn't move away, but his chest heaves as he glares at the floor between them.
"I swear to God, I wasn't... I don't care about her," Reid says, his voice urgent, desperate to bridge the sudden, terrifying distance between them. "I just... I do it because it throws people off. If I'm acting like a idiot chasing every new girl that steps off the bus, nobody looks closer. Nobody asks questions about us. I'm just trying to throw the scent off."
Tyler lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Throw the scent off? Are you serious?" He steps in closer, his gaze burning into Reid's. "We're the Sons of Ipswich, Reid. We have more power in our pinkies than the entire senior class combined. We're the most powerful guys at Spenser—maybe in this whole damn town. So why the hell do you give a damn what anybody thinks?"
Reid stands frozen, Tyler’s words ringing in the quiet entryway. He looks at Tyler’s face—the high cheekbones, the fierce, uncompromising intensity in his dark eyes, the slight tremble in his lower lip that he's trying so hard to hide. Reid feels a sudden, sharp ache in his chest, realizing how stupid he's been. He’s been hiding behind cheap parlor tricks and fake flirtations because he was afraid of the world looking too closely, when the only person whose opinion actually mattered was standing right in front of him, feeling completely alone.
A slow, genuine smile—small, humbled, and tender—breaks through Reid’s solemn face. "You're right," Reid whispers.
Tyler blinks, thrown off by the sudden surrender. "What?"
"You're right," Reid repeats, stepping forward until the toes of their sneakers touch. He reaches up, his hands carefully cupping the sides of Tyler’s neck, feeling the rapid, thrumming pulse against his palms. "It's stupid. I don't care. On Monday, I'll walk right into the quad, grab you by the collar, and tell the entire school to take a picture. I'll let everyone know."
Tyler stares at him, searching Reid’s eyes for any sign of a joke, any trace of sarcasm. He finds none. Reid’s gaze is steady, warm, and entirely his. The rigid tension holding Tyler’s shoulders tight finally snapped. The anger melts out of his face, replaced by a deep, weary relief. He lets out a breath that sounds half like a laugh and half like a sigh.
"You're an idiot," Tyler mutters, though there's no heat left in it.
"Yeah," Reid agrees softly, his thumb tracing the sharp line of Tyler’s jawline. "But I'm your idiot."
Tyler doesn't answer with words. He closes the tiny remaining distance between them, pressing his lips to Reid’s in a kiss that is hard, desperate, and possessive. Reid responds instantly, his hands tangling into the soft hair at the back of Tyler’s neck, pulling him closer until there is no air left between them, no room for isolation, no room for anyone else. The Power beneath their skin hums—not with the dark, destructive lure of the magic they're warned about, but with a quiet, grounding resonance that belongs only to the two of them.
When Tyler finally pulls back, his eyes are clear, the stormy darkness gone. He doesn't drop Reid's hand. Keeping his fingers intertwined with Reid’s, Tyler turns and begins leading him up the creaking wooden stairs toward his bedroom, the door closing behind them as the rest of the world fades into nothing.