Contracted 120

This chapter alters the tone of the story in ways that feel subtle but unmistakable. A few small actions, a single quiet decision, or a tension-filled pause becomes the reason the emotional direction changes. Something begins to move beneath the surface—slow, steady, and intentional.

Not every story shift arrives with noise. Here, the turning points are gentle—the kind you only notice when you look back. A reaction that lingers too long, a question left unanswered, or a truth almost spoken becomes the hinge that redirects the chapter’s course.

The emotions in this chapter speak through tone more than words. Fear hides behind confidence, affection shadows anger, and tension gives shape to conversations that should have been simple. These feelings echo between the lines, guiding the scene’s pulse.

The characters walk into this chapter carrying memories that shape every step. Old choices, forgotten promises, or unhealed wounds influence how they react now. The past doesn’t interrupt—it quietly steers the direction of the moment.

Relationships tilt in a new direction as truths slip out or are held back too strongly. Trust shifts, roles adjust, and power quietly rearranges itself. By the end of the scene, the distance between characters is not the same as when the chapter began.

The chapter’s environment carries a message of its own. A detail repeated twice, a silence that lasts a second longer, or the tone of the setting becomes a reflection of the characters’ internal storms. The world responds even when they don’t speak.

Small details serve as markers of what is coming. A shifted expression, a hesitant step, or a gesture cut short becomes a quiet prediction. These signs prepare the reader for challenges or revelations waiting in the next stretch of story.

Some words spoken in this chapter won’t fade. These lines hold the emotional truth of the scene—capturing fear, longing, or resolve in a way the characters rarely allow themselves to say. They become the emotional imprint the reader carries forward.

Call Your Mother.

:

473

It’s mid–afternoon by the time I wake, the light cutting through the curtains in long, lazy strips. For a few seconds, I can’t figure out what pulled me from sleep, then I hear it. Squeals, laughter, and the unmistakable sound of small feet pounding against wood. Sage’s side of the bed is already empty. The moment another burst of giggles echoes up from downstairs, she’s throwing the door open, hair wild, still wearing my shirt.

“Bloody hell…” I mutter, scrambling after her. I pull on the first pair of sweats I find, rub the sleep from my eyes, and take the stairs two at a time, heart in my throat. For half a second, all I can think is danger, that something’s gone wrong, that someone’s screaming for help. But when I hit the bottom, I nearly run her over. She’s standing frozen in the hallway, shoulders loose, mouth open, not in fear, but in disbelief. I stop just short of crashing into her and follow her gaze.

Nico’s in the middle of the living room, of all places, armed with a bright pink tube of bubble mix he must’ve found in one of the supply boxes. He’s spinning like a lunatic, waving the wand through the air as if he’s some sort of over–caffeinated fairy, sending streams of bubbles through the sunlight. The kids are going wild, jumping, laughing, clapping, trying to catch each shimmering sphere before it bursts.

One lands on Nico’s nose, pops, and leaves a trail of soap down his cheek. “Behold!” he announces, dramatic as ever, “the mighty Bubble

Master!”

The room erupts in laughter. Even Winnie is snorting from the couch as she tries to keep one of the smaller ones from toppling over.

Sage lets out a breath that sounds halfway between a laugh and a sob, her hand pressed to her chest. “They’re laughing,” she whispers, almost to herself. “They’re actually laughing.”

I slide an arm around her waist, tugging her closer as I rest my chin on her shoulder. “Yeah,” I say softly. “Guess the little ghosts are finally learning how to be kids again.”

Nico catches sight of us and grins like an idiot. “Oh look, Mum and Dad are up!” he shouts, spinning the wand one last time before tripping over his own foot and sending another burst of bubbles across the room.

The kids cheer, the sound so pure it hits something deep in my chest I didn’t know was still there.

Sage leans back against me, a smile breaking across her face. “Home,” she murmurs, like she’s testing the word.

“Yeah,” I say, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “Home.”

Before I can say another word, Naomi’s voice cuts through the chaos from the kitchen.

“Oh, thank God you’re both awake finally!” she calls, loud enough to drown out even the bubble riot. “Sage, I need help in here! And Conner, if you don’t enjoy burnt sausages, you’d better get your arse outside and help Liam. He’s murdering the lunch!”

Sage laughs under her breath, turning to look up at me with that sleepy, crooked grin that still knocks the air out of my lungs. “Guess

that’s our cue.”

I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. “Of course he is. The man can strip a rifle in the dark but can’t cook a sausage without declaring war on it.”

She smirks, stepping away and calling back toward the kitchen, “On my way!” The sound of her bare feet pattering across the floorboards follows, the hem of my shirt swaying around her thighs as she disappears around the corner.

Call Your Mother.

473

73

I head for the back door, but not before Nico yells, “Oi, Conner! If Liam sets the deck on fire again, I’m blaming you!”

I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “If you can build a bomb out of a bloody toaster, you can handle a barbecue, Nicholaus.”

“Different skill set!” he calls back, laughing as another wave of bubbles explodes across the room.

I step out into the backyard and am immediately greeted by smoke, thick, black, and curling from the grill like a distress signal. Liam’s standing there with tongs in hand, squinting through the haze, a plate of what used to be sausages now resembling charcoal.

“Christ, Liam,” I sigh, grabbing the tongs from him. “You trying to feed the family or poison them?”

He shrugs, deadpan. “I like mine extra crispy.”

“Mate, these aren’t crispy. They’re evidence.”

He snorts, and it just fills the air, warm and easy. Inside, I can hear Sage and Naomi laughing over something in the kitchen, pots clattering, kids shrieking, Nico shouting about bubbles and burnt lunch.

I’ve got to hand it to these new ghost recruits, they’ve got more initiative than half my men. I barely get the fire under control before they’re already moving, quiet but efficient, like instinct. A couple of them start pulling tables and chairs from the shed, and another group sets up a few benches under the tree line. One of the girls takes the tray of meat from me without a word and starts laying everything out like she’s been running a kitchen her whole life. Inside, I can hear Sage and Naomi still laughing, the smell of butter and bread drifting through the open windows. The ghosts work seamlessly with them, passing dishes, grabbing drinks, setting cutlery like it’s second nature. What gets me most, though, is the change. That rigid, haunted look they all wore when we first brought them here… It’s easing. You can see it in the way their shoulders drop, in the small smiles that sneak through when someone cracks a joke or when one of the kids runs by with soap bubbles still stuck in their hair. They move like a well–oiled machine.

“Darling!” Sage calls, dragging the word out like she’s scolding a child. I turn just in time to see her strutting across the yard, my phone in hand and a grin that tells me I’m in for it. “Your Ma is on the phone,” she announces, waving it like a weapon. “And she is pisssssseeed that you haven’t called.”

Liam chokes on a laugh, backing away from the grill. “Oh, you’re dead, mate.” Follow current novᴇls on find·novel·net

Sage presses the phone to her chest, whispering loudly, “She said she was going to fly over here herself if you didn’t pick up.”

I groan, wiping my hands on a rag. “Bloody hell. One week–one week–and she’s already threatening international travel.”

Sage snorts, holding the phone out like it’s radioactive. “You might wanna fix that before she calls in the cavalry.”

I take it reluctantly, already hearing Ma’s voice sharp through the speaker before I even say hello. “Conner Patrick O’Neill! Don’t you ‘hi Ma‘ me! You’ve been home for days and you think you can’t call your mother?”

I roll my eyes, muttering, “Yeah, thanks for the backup, sweetheart,” before bringing the phone to my ear. “Aye, Ma… yes, I’m alive… no, I haven’t forgotten how to use a phone… yes, Sage is eating properly…”

Sage giggles, mouthing, tell her I’m perfect.

Call Your Mother.

Chapter Comments

37

The chapter ends on a note that doesn’t fully settle. Something remains suspended—an emotion, a doubt, a truth not yet faced. This lingering tension becomes the thread that pulls the story into what comes next.

The following chapter will likely rise from the choices made here. Tensions will sharpen, secrets may press too close, and the emotional ground beneath the characters will shift again. What was hinted here may demand attention soon.

What moment hit the deepest? What truth almost surfaced but didn’t? Who changed the most in this chapter—openly or quietly? These questions frame the next part of the journey.

The world around the characters—its pressure, expectations, memories, and unseen rules—supports or strains each decision made in this scene. The chapter sits inside a larger reality, and that reality gives every action weight.

With this chapter closing, the story steps into a new stretch of uncertainty and possibility—ready to reveal what has been building underneath.