The hallway was empty when Hale caught up to her.
Ivy—no, not just Ivy. This one felt… different. She stood near the trophy case, her fingers trailing across the glass like she wasn't really there. The faint hum of the school's old lights buzzed above them, barely masking the tremble in Hale's breath.
He hadn't planned it.
But maybe he had.
All the walks, the talks, the half-hearted smiles, the forced laughter, the way he kept count of every version of her he had taken out. Every location. Every smile. Every variation.
None of them felt like this one.
This Ivy was still.
Unpredictable.
Almost… real.
"Ivy," he said, softly, like the name itself was sacred.
She turned to him, her expression unreadable.
"I… I was thinking," he began, voice low, barely above the hum, "what if we—what if you and I… did something again? Not just coffee. Something else. Something like…"
His words trailed off.
Her eyes didn't blink.
There was a pause, heavy and fragile.
And then she smiled.
But it wasn't a bright smile. It was soft. Sad. As if she already knew the ending.
"You can't fake love," she said.
It struck him like a blade under the ribs.
"What?"
"I don't know what version of me you think I am," she continued. "But I'm not her. And I don't think you're you either."
"Ivy…"
"No," she said, more firmly. "Stop calling me that."
She took a step closer, and her voice cracked just slightly.
"I feel like I'm unraveling. Every second I'm around you. Like there are memories in me that aren't mine. Places I remember but never visited. Moments I feel but never lived. And all of them… have you in them."
Hale opened his mouth to say something—anything—but she stumbled.
Her hand reached out, grasping his arm for balance. Her knees buckled.
"Ivy!"
He caught her before she hit the ground. His arms wrapped around her instinctively, and she slumped against him, unconscious.
And that's when it happened.
The mark on his chest ignited.
He gasped.
The pain tore through him like fire and ice fused together, spreading through every nerve, every bone. His body shook, his vision blurred, his breath ripped from his lungs. He dropped to his knees with her still in his arms, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming.
It felt like something ancient had just snapped into place. A lock turning. A fate sealed.
The mark pulsed, glowing faintly under his shirt.
Complete.
No more half-curves. No more mysterious edges.
A full sigil. Carved. Branded.
He didn't need a mirror to know it was done.
It burned like hell—and hell would've been kinder.
Because this pain wasn't just physical.
It was the pain of inevitability.
Of knowing something was written, long before you had a chance to stop it.
She would fall for him.
That was certain now.
But so was the cost.
And Hale knew—deep in his bones—that this version of her, the one in his arms, was the closest thing to real he'd ever touched.
And she was slipping through his fingers.