No creak of a door.
Just the soft hush of wind through trees and the steady tick of the wall clock.
You’re safe,I tell myself.
My body doesn’t believe me.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and press my palms to my thighs, trying to slow my breathing. The guest room is cozy—thick blankets, clean sheets, the faint smell of cedar—but my chest still feels too tight. Like the walls are inching closer.
I close my eyes. The image of the doorknob turning flashes behind them.
“Nope,” I whisper. I stand, pad to the door, and crack it open.
The hallway is dim. Chase’s room is at the end, a faint line of light spilling from under his door—probably the same habit that made him leave the fire going. Practical. Steady. Prepared.
My hand hovers in the air. I don’t want to bethatperson. The girl who wakes a man in the middle of the night because she had a bad dream. The girl who needs reassurance like a child needs a nightlight. But the truth is simple and ugly and very present: I’m scared. And pretending I’m not hasn’t worked so far.
I take a breath and knock softly. Nothing. I knock again, a little louder. “Chase?” My voice comes out small. Annoyingly small. There’s a pause. Then movement.
The door opens a few inches, and Chase appears, hair messy, T-shirt wrinkled, eyes instantly alert. “What’s wrong?” he asks, already scanning the hallway like he expects a threat to leap out of the shadows.
I swallow. “I had a nightmare.”
His expression shifts—still guarded, but softer around the edges. “Come in.” He opens the door wider and steps back.
I slip inside like I’m afraid the dark might grab me by the ankles and drag me away.
His room is simple. Bed. Dresser. A chair with clothes thrown over it. No clutter. No nonsense. The kind of room that belongs to a man who doesn’t collect things—just skills.
“Do you want water?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.” The words feel like a confession.
He doesn’t hesitate. He just nods. “Okay.”
Okay. Notthat’s inconvenient. Notyou’ll be fine. Notgo back to bed. Just… okay.
He pulls back the covers on his bed and gestures. “You can sleep here.”
I freeze. “I don’t want to kick you out of your bed.”
“You’re not,” he says. “We can share. Or I can take the chair.”
I glance at the chair. It looks about as comfortable as a medieval torture device. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “You’re not sleeping in that.”
He studies my face for a second, like he’s making sure this is what I actually want. Then he nods and climbs in on the far side of the bed, leaving a careful, respectful space between us.
I slide in too, clutching the blanket like it’s a shield.
For a moment, we just lie there. The room is quiet. My heart is still racing, but slower now. Less wild.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks quietly.
I stare at the ceiling. “It was stupid.”
“Nightmares usually are,” he says. “Doesn’t make them easy.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Someone was coming into my apartment. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I just… waited.”