On a regular day, Hunter would’ve braced for impact.

He would’ve been prepared to break into haunted buildings, toy with cursed artifacts (despite Natt’s repeated warnings), and fight vengeful souls. He would’ve been prepared for anything – except for this.

The world stopped.

Arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. His cheek pressed against the fabric of Grandma Vaughn’s sleeve. Hunter could feel her gentle hand patting his hair. Her apron smelled like warm cinnamon, embracing him. She muttered words Hunter couldn’t catch. But it wasn’t about the words.

It was the voice.

Soothing. _Comforting_.

He could feel the tightness loosen down in his ribs. Something he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

For the first time, Hunter let himself close his eyes. And what he saw wasn’t black. Memories morphed out of the void. Laughter echoed, and playful whispers surfaced—an array of thousands of memories spread like stars across the sky.

No.

This was no ghost looking for revenge.

This was no illusion playing with his head.

No tricks.

No traps.

This was real, and it was alive.

This was Natalie Vaughn’s Grandmother.

The woman who’s treated him as her own. The woman who held his hand and walked him into adulthood. The one who’s watched him grow up into what he is now.

A figure of guardianship. A figure of Love.

He buried his face into her shoulder, breathing the cinnamon scent, clashing against the whiff of his leather, slightly damp from the rain. His fingers slowly curled around her, as if afraid she might slip out of reach, just like raindrops trickling down from cupped hands. Grandma’s fingers caressed through his hair, weaved with love and warmth.

For a blissful while, nothing mattered. He didn’t want to pull away. He didn’t care even if Natt teased him about it later. All his walls melted. His guard dropped.

At that moment, there was no Hunter Cross. Not the reckless ghost-hunter with his stubborn signature grin.

But a vulnerable boy embracing his Grandmother.

He stood there. For thirty seconds. One minute? Two minutes?

It didn’t matter.

He was there. He was safe. He was _home._