The intruder wasn't an enemy.
It was Amara.
She stumbled in, blood streaking down her arm, eyes wide with panic.
"They know," she gasped. "They found the letters. The ones your father wrote. They're coming for you, Aria. Tonight."
"Where were you?" Xander demanded.
"I went back to the cabin," she said, wincing. "I wanted to find the last journal. The one that proved what they did to your mother."
Aria didn't know what to believe.
But she saw the fear in Amara's eyes—and the pain. Maybe it was real. Maybe it wasn't. But there wasn't time to question it.
They packed quickly.
As she slung a bag over her shoulder, Xander caught her arm.
"Wait."
She turned.
He looked at her with something unreadable. "If we don't make it out—"
"We will."
"But if we don't," he said, voice lower now, "I need you to know something."
Aria stared at him.
His jaw clenched, then relaxed.
"I loved you," he said simply. "Even when you hated me. Even when I left. I never stopped."
The words knocked the air from her lungs.
And for a moment—just one—she let herself feel everything she'd buried for years.
Then she kissed him.
Not out of panic. Not desperation.
But truth.
It was brief. Real. Everything she hadn't dared say.
Then the headlights appeared at the edge of the tree line.
The world snapped back into motion.