The door to Miles's room had always been closed.
Sometimes Ivy would see it crack open during the day, just an inch, like it was daring her. But tonight, she couldn't resist. After everything Mrs. Grose told her, after the garden, the box, the way Miles looked at her during dinner like he could see every thought she was trying to bury... she had to go inside.
She crept up the stairs alone.
Kate was asleep. Flora had long drifted off after a bedtime story. The house felt too still, as if it knew something was about to happen.
She reached for the handle.
It turned with a soft click.
The room was dim — the curtains drawn, lit only by the moonlight slicing in through a narrow slit between them. It smelled like old wood and something sharp beneath it... like cologne soaked into the walls.
Not Miles's usual scent.
She stepped inside.
The bed was too large for a boy. The sheets dark. The pillows flattened from use. There were boots by the wardrobe that looked too big. On the dresser sat a tarnished silver comb and a pack of old cigarettes. A glass with a lipstick stain on its rim. And hanging on the wall above the desk — a riding crop.
Ivy felt her skin crawl.
This wasn't Miles's room.
It belonged to him.
Peter Quint.
She moved slowly, her hand grazing over the desk. There were initials carved into the wood: P.Q. The mirror beside it was old and warped, but as she looked into it, for just one horrible second, she didn't see herself.
She saw someone else.
A man.
Tall. Smiling.
And standing right behind her.
She turned fast—but the room was empty.
"Ivy?"
Her breath caught. She turned again, slower this time.
Miles stood in the doorway, watching her. Not angry. Not surprised.
Just smiling.
"I was wondering when you'd come in."
His voice was lower than usual. Calm. Controlled.
"I didn't mean to—"
"You wanted to see," he said. "It's okay. I want you to see me. All of me."
Ivy opened her mouth but didn't know what to say.
Miles walked toward her, his eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. "You feel it, don't you?" he asked. "This house... remembers everything. Even the wrong things."
She looked at him, heart hammering.
"This was his room," she whispered.
Miles just nodded.
"I'm not him," he said softly. "But... sometimes I think he never left."
He stepped closer.
"I'm not like other boys, Ivy."
He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"You don't want other boys."
His hand lingered against her cheek. Her body froze, but her heart leaned forward. She hated herself for it.
"Miles..." Her voice was barely there.
He didn't kiss her.
But he didn't have to.
His presence alone was enough to leave her dizzy.
"I see you," he murmured, stepping back. "And you see me, don't you?"
She didn't answer.
Because yes — she did.
And that was the most dangerous part of all.