When Malcolm Diamond accepted a contract position with Blunden Construction, he wasn’t prepared to end up in the middle of backwoods Wisconsin for two months. All he’d wanted was an escape from his obnoxious roommate, then he’d gotten stuck with more than he bargained for.

Mac lived in Madison, which was over an hour’s drive from the new Stamkos & Stein pharmaceutical factory that formed the basis of his contract. His portion of the work was due to wrap up over three weeks ago and here he’d barely made a dent in his assigned duties. It was frustrating, especially because the commute home was too long to make twice a day for 12 weeks. His mom wanted him to come back to Madison over the weekends, but Mac physically recoiled at the thought. His roommate, the reason he’d accepted the contract in the first place, was a full-time student and spent all of his off time at the apartment. Normally, that wasn’t much of an issue. Mac worked odd hours, so even if he was home, they rarely crossed paths.

In the few weeks before his contract began, their alternating schedules didn’t matter. Kyle had a new girlfriend and the two of them were firmly in the honeymoon stage of their relationship. That meant humping like rabbits at any opportunity, and always at Mac and Kyle’s place. Apparently, Kyle was allergic to Ariana’s cat.

Yeah, Mac was much happier lounging around a dust-covered work camp than subjecting himself to nights of poorly muffled mattress springs squeaking out an embarrassing rhythm from across the hall.

Mac Diamond was a resourceful guy. While Somerton wasn’t the height of social opportunity, all Mac needed was an open space and a boatload of booze to make a memorable night. Technically his open space of choice wasn’t his per se. If he was caught hosting a party on the recently-leveled ground for the new factory, he’d undoubtedly be fired. The knowledge tickled his conscience, ultimately fading behind the surge of determination and boredom that permanently occupied his chest in these woods. How would his bosses find out, anyway? They were all corporate-born nepotism babies, with three houses and as many wives spread out over the country. None of them would be caught dead spending their weekend within spitting distance of their lower-class employees.

Besides, half of his coworkers were here, toting full cases of beer and filling their rolling papers with more than plain tobacco. If word did get back to the higher-ups, they couldn’t fire everyone.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Originally, Mac wasn’t expecting much of a turnout. Aside from the men sharing the camp, he didn’t know many people in Somerton. He couldn’t exactly post about the party on social media— talk about asking to get caught— so he was a little concerned about the attendance rate. Luckily, he’d forgotten about small-town rules. Within a few hours of sending out the first text, every person under the age of 25 in Somerton and the surrounding area knew there was a party happening and that they were invited.

S&S had chosen the perfect building site for illicit activity. Mac would’ve felt bad taking advantage of his employer-by-proxy, if not for their laughable decision-making skills. If they’d been smarter with their location scouting, they wouldn’t have to worry about trespassers in the first place. If anything, Mac was helping them out. Let them learn their lesson now, well before they started producing actual products that would be worth stealing. A little property damage was nothing compared to narcotics theft.

“MAC!” Graham’s drunken voice slurred through the pounding EDM shaking the leaves of the surrounding firs. “WHERE’S THE KEY TO THE GENERATOR?”

Mac reached into his pocket, retrieved the key, and tossed it to Graham. Given the obvious state of Graham’s sobriety, that wasn’t the smartest move. The key thumped to the dirt with three bystanders plus Graham scrambling to find it. Mac shook his head and walked away without offering to help; the generator belonged to someone’s uncle. He didn’t care what happened to it.

With only rudimentary planning and a few volunteers, they’d managed to turn the construction site into something akin to an outdoor music festival. The generator was powering strings of yellow lights that skirted the edge of the clearing, marking the start of the treeline and unmonitored territory. It was also powering an impressive number of speakers, which blasted music from Mac’s own phone. No less than ten coolers were scattered around, housing partially-melted ice cubes and chilled bottles of cheap alcohol. Mac had really outdone himself with this one— even the weather seemed to be praising his ingenuity. For the end of October in Wisconsin, the temperature was shockingly mild.

A shrill laugh caught Mac’s attention, souring his mood instantly. Lisa. He knew she’d be here, but that didn’t mean he was any less bitter about it. The sudden and intense urge to take a piss overwhelmed him, and the timing couldn’t have been better. He’d take any semblance of an excuse to hightail it before his ex’s sister spotted him.

“I gotta empty the tank,” Mac said to no one in particular, waving to Graham before jerking his thumb over his shoulder when he had his attention. “Be back in a sec.”

Graham nodded, though he was too far away to have heard what Mac said. Context clues would help him figure it out if he needed to.

The Basin, the forest that was home to their agonizingly drawn-out construction project, wasn’t the most interesting place to work. It was a nice enough forest, as far as forests go. Mac could understand why someone would really enjoy spending time here, just not him. He wasn’t a nature guy, so without work to do, he was bored out of his damn mind. With towering trees, dense foliage, a myriad of wildlife, and a thick coating of bugs, Somerton and its adjoining wilderness were the kinds of places where a person could live their whole life and never see anything interesting, not once. Mac never saw the appeal of places like that. Even less so now that he was plunged into the untamed void of the Basin, looking for a place to piss.

As he stumbled through the darkened woods, the temperature plummeted. Maybe it had been mild earlier, or maybe he’d had more alcohol than he realized, but Mac couldn’t deny that winter weather hovered in the shadows around him. The combination of heat from the string lights, the people milling around, and the whirring of the electronics must’ve warmed the air at the construction site more efficiently than he’d assumed. Mac wished like hell he’d brought his overcoat.

Sound didn’t carry well through the dense trees, so Mac only had to walk a brief distance before the music faded to a soft hum barely loud enough to drown out his own labored breath. He was definitely drunker than he thought he was, the imposing tree trunks swaying in his vision and making it look like the forest was gently dancing to the far-off chords. Mac chuckled at the ridiculous thought, unzipped his jeans, and began relieving himself.

“…Malcom…”

The words tickled his ear like the gossamer threads of a spider web caressing his skin. Mac jolted, stumbling back against the weathered oak he’d just doused in beer-scented urine.

He waited for the voice to sound again, but the forest remained stubbornly silent.

“Graham?” Mac growled, shaking his head to clear some of the drunken haze clinging to his vision. The cold was sobering him, turning the tips of his fingers red and clouding his shaky breath. “Stop messing around, Graham!”

Mac waited again, to no avail. The woods were silent.

He hastily zipped up his jeans, pulled his hoodie back down over his hips, and stomped loudly back in the direction he’d come from. The Basin may have bored him to death in the daytime, but it was creepy as hell at night. Suddenly, the prospect of being accosted by Lisa wasn’t the worst fate he could imagine.

As he rushed to return to the comfort of the light, Mac could’ve sworn he heard someone creeping through the underbrush somewhere behind him. The sound was muddled by the fabric of his hood against his ears and the ruckus of his own movement, but the longer he listened, the more certain he was that someone was there. The rest of the forest had gone eerily quiet, allowing him to home in on the rustling of leaves ten paces away.

It wasn’t Graham. Mac had no idea why, but he was absolutely sure that whoever was tailing him, wasn’t his friend. He slowed his step then quickened it again, trying to trick his pursuer into fumbling their walking pattern. He made it only a few feet before realizing how ridiculous he was being. He was in the woods, for Christ’s sake. There were animals everywhere. All this fuss and Mac’s stalker was probably a stupid squirrel.

He needed to get back, and he sure as shit needed another beer.

Jesus, it’s cold. It was like the entire forest had frozen to a standstill, with not even a whisper of wind to dispel the quiet. Should that be peaceful? Mac didn’t know. The feeling in his gut was anything but pleasant, whether from booze or paranoia he didn’t much care. How far had he walked, anyway? He didn’t want Lisa following him, so he’d moved a bit further away from the crowd than he’d needed to. Still, he didn’t think he’d gone that far. He should be back by now.

“Malcolm.”

The voice again, louder this time. Mac tripped over the shock of hearing it, close enough that it could be coming from his own mouth, and he wouldn’t be able to say differently. What the hell?

“Who are you?” Mac demanded, not sure that he wanted an answer. The Basin remained silent, teasing him with its refusal to answer his questions. “Fuck off.”

It was a childish thing to say, but it did make him feel better. Mac started walking again with renewed vigor only to collide with a wall of shadow that knocked him clean off his feet.

He flailed on his way to the ground, trying to catch himself before he hit his head on a rock. His hands grasped the air, finding nothing with purchase, and Mac felt the somersault of gravity in his stomach. He was falling for what seemed like a lifetime, and then the shadows grabbed him.

He didn’t understand, but it was true. The shadow that he’d walked into, the swirling mass of darkness in front of him clutched at his arms first, then his shoulders, and suddenly Mac was lifted from the ground. He tried to fight the shadow’s hold on him, but it was no use. The darkness remained intangible to him, with the grip on his body as solid and cold as glacial ice. The shadows pulled at him, yanking him in every direction until he felt like his skin would tear. The touch of darkness on his body was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, as though the absence of light had manifested into a corporeal form and latched onto him, injecting icy terror into his veins.

And then it entered his mouth.

Mac didn’t know he was screaming until the shadow plunged an undulating tendril into his mouth, choking him. His scream died in a guttural gasp as saliva pooled in his cheeks, tears flooding his eyes. The shadows funneled into his mouth until Mac couldn’t breathe, his lungs straining against the intrusion and clawing for oxygen all at once. Mac grabbed his own throat, his hands now free, and clawed at his taut skin. The shadows pulsed in his mouth, gagging him, until he felt like he was freezing from the inside out. He was so cold— it felt like his heart was stilling in his chest, weighed down by fractals of ice mounting behind his ribs. If not for the fear and panic powering his body, Mac was sure his heart would’ve stopped by now.

His vision darkened, the shadows filling him so completely that he could now see them from the inside of his eyes. Mac was going to die. In a sharp moment of inescapable clarity, he knew it. He also knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, it was over.

Mac collapsed to the ground, sucking in breath after precious breath. His lungs burned with gratitude, pumping oxygen through his blood with frantic speed. For a split second, he wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe he’d accidentally ingested LSD, or maybe he was in the middle of a psychotic break. Both of those theories vanished when he stood, and the echo of the shadows thrummed in his limbs. They were still there, writhing under the surface of his skin, worming into his flesh. He retched, steadying himself on a nearby tree.

Help. He needed help.

Mac spun, searching for his trail, grasping for his bearings. The forest pressed in on him, distorted faces against carnival glass, mocking him. Mac tried to ignore it, to focus on choosing the right way back. He couldn’t risk choosing wrong and getting himself even more lost. Whatever was happening to him, he wouldn’t survive it alone.

The inky blackness of the night swelled and mottled before his eyes, squirming in a thick, viscous boil, like sauce simmering on a stove. Mac ground his palms into his face, shaking his head to dispel the illusion. The Basin was alive and breathing, clinging to his cold skin, and dragging him deeper into the darkness. Where were the others? Could they see what he was seeing?

With his eyes squeezed shut, he had no way of knowing.

Mac didn’t understand that he was moving until the sounds of laughter and drunken cheers pierced his hammering skull. He gagged against the bolt of pain, jerking as it spasmed along his spine and down his legs. He thought he must’ve screamed because everything was silent in the next instant, save for his gasping breaths.

“Hey, Mac? You alright, buddy?”

Did it look like he was alright?

The bitter retort ignited and fizzled in the same second, smothered by the electrifying pain in his throat. Why were they still here, partying? Mac would’ve been long gone by now if it weren’t for the lead weight in his aching limbs. They should run, get back to their cars, to their homes, to safety. From what, he didn’t quite know. Urgency and panic coupled in his gut, alerting him to the presence of danger. He cracked his jaw open to warn them, but only a screech came out.

“Christ, Mac!” That was Graham’s voice, he was almost positive. “What happened? Someone call somebody! An ambulance, the police, shit, anyone!”

Rage surged in Mac’s chest. How the hell was he supposed to know what happened? It’s not like he planned this. Did they think he was doing it intentionally? Shoving away the insult, Mac tried again to speak.

“Do you see it?” he rasped, doubling over with the effort. Every breath felt like fire in his lungs despite the chills consuming his body. Graham didn’t answer, but Mac couldn’t look at him. He refused to open his eyes, not again, not while the world taunted him with its wrongness.

“See what, Mac?”

Graham’s voice again, right next to him and yet also distant and echoed, like he was speaking through water. How could he not see it? Mac retched when he tried to answer, a mixture of stale beer and gas station nachos souring the back of his tongue. He couldn’t take this anymore— the agony in his head, the burning in his veins, the all-consuming cold— it was too much. Mac’s knees buckled, and he fell to the dirt with a painful thud.

“Call 911!” Graham was yelling, his voice cracking in desperation. Mac had never noticed how… melodic Graham sounded when he was afraid. It was soothing, almost pleasurable. Mac shuddered on the ground, inhaling against the stabbing pain in his chest. As his lungs filled, Mac felt the knot of tension in him ease. The cloying scent of dirt, pine, and alcohol was strong, but beneath it, something else coated his throat. Something sweet, intoxicating, and new. Something Mac had never smelled before but was immediately addicted to. Fuck, it felt good. He thought that… yes, yes, he was. The smell was so good he was getting hard for Christ’s sake. Somehow, deep in his gut, Mac knew what this smell was.

Fear.

Mac took another deep breath, shuddering at the pleasure that coursed through him with the intoxicating scent of fear permeating the clearing. God above, he needed more. Mac let his lips fall open, drool spilling over the pockets of his cheeks and dripping down his chin as he sucked in breath after breath, a clawing emptiness deep inside him desperate to be sated. The commotion of the ruined party faded to a dull roar in his ears, erasing his pain. Mac’s limbs were numb, tingling with the aftermath of exposure. He stretched, vaguely confused by the symphony of cracks that erupted from his joints. They sounded strange, like snapping twigs. Why were his eyes still closed?

The ground crumbled under his fingernails as Mac twisted onto all fours— no, not fingernails. Claws. He inhaled again, invigorated by the delicious panic seeping through the air. The forest was loud again, invading his newfound peace with annoying clarity. It took him longer than it should’ve to realize that everyone was screaming. Could they see it now?

Mac had forgotten the reason he’d closed his eyes in the first place. He pried them open now, welcoming the swell of colour that assaulted his vision. The blackness of night hemorrhaged into deep, crimson red, dousing the glitter of stars left in the sky. People swarmed around him, some shocked, some horrified, some angry, all mouth-watering. Mac surveyed them with a discerning glare.

They were trespassers here, he decided. Unwanted. Undeserving. They couldn’t see what he did, too distracted by his grotesque appearance to notice the beauty around them. Red, like the rarest ruby on Earth. Red, like a single drop of blood in crystal clear waters. They couldn’t see it, but Mac could. He was an ugly scar of shadow on this vibrant scene. Red flowed through the trees, thrumming with life. Red flowed through them, fueling the air with the delectable taste of terror. They couldn’t see it, but he needed it.

Mac flexed his new claws, picturing them coated with paint-like blood, satisfying his darkness with shimmering life.

They couldn’t see the glorious red pumping through them now, but they would. Mac would make sure of it. By the time he was done, they would see everything. By the time he was done, the world would see everything.

By the time he was done, everything would be red.

As the front door of LJ’s Diner slammed shut behind her, muffling the abrasive shouts of Derek Harris, Amelia was decided. Dating in Pennsylvania was way worse than dating in Illinois.

The early autumn air was a bracing relief after the oppressive heat of the diner. Amelia loved LJ’s for its open kitchen and family-oriented atmosphere, but eating next to the bustling grill always left her with a thin sheen of fry oil and sweat over her entire body by the time she’d settled her bill. Not this time, at least. This time, she hadn’t made it past the appetizers before storming out.

Something crashed inside, and Amelia felt anger surge in her chest. She reached for the door handle with every intention of dragging Derek outside herself, stopped only by the stern look Matt shot her through the tempered glass. For a line cook, Matt was terrifyingly large. Determination and spite would only get her so far when the man could easily lift her off her feet with one hand. Annoyed, she settled against the yellowing brick with her arms crossed over her chest.

Derek Harris threw an impressive tantrum, she’d give him that much. At 34 and a chronic smoker, he was screaming with the lung capacity of someone half his age. The muted insults she could hear left her vibrating with fury; she was the one who’d ruined his shirt, not the staff. Who the hell was he to berate them like that? Again, the urge to burst back inside and haul Derek out by his ear surfaced in her gut. If Matt wasn’t keeping a close eye on her, she would’ve. The seasoned line cook would never let her put herself in harm’s way, even if it was her colossal mistake of a date that was causing the ruckus. Maybe especially then.

All Amelia could do was wait, seething against the weathered brick wall of LJ’s, until a familiar red truck veered into the parking lot.

The dirt-spattered Tacoma screamed to a stop just feet from her, the engine hissing in protest at the abrupt shift from Drive to Park. Before the truck had fully settled, the driver’s side door crashed open, and Sam launched himself onto the asphalt. He rounded the vehicle in four determined strides, quickly assessing her for any injuries. Seeing none, Sam nodded toward the diner.

“He still here?”

Amelia loosed one arm and cracked open the diner’s door. Derek’s rough threats tripled in volume, startling a nearby group of schoolgirls sharing a basket of onion rings at a splintering picnic table.

“Unfortunately,” she confirmed, letting the door close again. Sam’s expression darkened, shrugging out of his jacket, and tossing it to her.

“Get in the truck,” he commanded, disappearing into the diner before she could protest. Amelia had absolutely no interest in listening, although she did move to the driver’s side in case someone tried to make off with the still-running vehicle. She was only alone for seconds before LJ’s front door slammed open, spitting out a stunned, sputtering Derek Harris.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Derek cursed, catching his balance before he fell face-first into the pavement. “Mind your own damn business!”

Sam followed behind Derek, shutting the door behind him with deliberate finality. He sank his hands into his jeans pockets, planting himself between Derek and the establishment.

“I think you’ve caused enough of a scene,” he said, raising an eyebrow challengingly. “How about you sit in your car and cool off until the cops get here.”

“Oh, you called the cops, huh?” Derek sneered. “Good. I want to press charges!”

“For what?”

“Assault!” Derek whipped his head in all directions, suddenly searching for something. When his eyes landed on Amelia, he grew incensed. “You! I’ll sue you both! And this dumpster of a diner!”

It was almost comical, the way his eyes bulged, and his face reddened. Amelia briefly wondered if it was possible for a person to actually explode from anger.

“Am? Think those charges will stick?” Sam asked her, bitter amusement easing the severity of his anger. Amelia felt a small pang of pride— Sam wouldn’t typically be so composed. She pretended to think for a moment, smirking.

“Would a strawberry milkshake count as a deadly weapon?” Derek reeled back like he wasn’t expecting her to speak. The front of his shirt was horrifically stained with the sugary, dairy-filled evidence of their disastrous first (and only) date. Otherwise, he was unharmed. Dumping a milkshake on a misogynist was hardly a crime. Uttering threats and destroying private property, on the other hand, certainly were.

“Face it, Harris,” Sam growled, drawing Derek’s attention back to him. He cut an imposing figure silhouetted by the residual glow of LJ’s interior fluorescents. “When the police show, you’re the only one getting a record out of this.”

“You threw me into the street!” Derek screeched at Sam, taking an aggravated step toward him. Sam didn’t flinch but Amelia did, ready to throw herself at Derek if he even thought about flinging a cheap shot at Sam. “You fucking manhandled me, asshole! I could’ve broken something!”

“You did,” Sam said pointedly. “A table, two chairs, and at least six dishes. Also, any dignity you had left, but I’m guessing that wasn’t much.”

Derek’s jaw snapped shut. He simmered for a long second and then, realizing he was already in deep shit, decided to go for broke. He pulled back his right arm, throwing a punch at Sam with the full force of his stocky frame. Amelia snapped out a warning, but Sam didn’t need it. He caught Derek’s punch and cranked his arm behind his back in the same motion, dropping Derek to the ground. He howled indignantly, trying in vain to break Sam’s hold.

“Aggravated assault, destruction of private property, making threats… did I miss anything, Am?”

“Not unless being a colossal douche is a crime.”

“It’s not,” Sam shook his head sadly, “luckily for our boy Derek here. Get in the truck.”

Sam’s tone shifted abruptly, so much so that it took Amelia a second to realize the instruction was for her. She bristled, leveling a glare at Sam that could freeze lava.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her words dripping in sarcasm, “just because I’m pissed at him doesn’t mean you’ve got a free pass. Watch your tone.”

Sam pulled his gaze away from Derek to meet her defiant stare with ease.

“You’re right,” he droned. “I wasn’t thinking. Get in the goddamn truck now.”

Outrage filled her. “Excuse you—”

“Amelia, I’m not asking.”

This time, urgency undercut the authority in Sam’s voice. She paused, willing her temper to settle as she listened. When the blood rushing in her ears quieted, she finally heard it. Sirens.

“Shit,” she muttered, momentarily forgetting her annoyance. She yanked open the Tacoma’s driver-side door and scrambled across the middle console to the passenger seat. Sam waved to Matt, releasing Derek into the dirt only when the line cook had joined them. Derek didn’t try to attack them again or run, just sat on the pavement, huffing like a petulant child. Sam rushed over to the truck, slamming it into Drive, and peeling out of the parking lot at frantic speed. They were barely around the corner when the first police cruiser came into sight, heading directly for LJ’s Diner.

—

“I know you just saved my ass back there and all, but if you ever speak to me like that again I’m going to formally introduce my foot to the inside of your colon. Understood?”

“Promises, promises,” Sam said dreamily, reclining in his seat as they navigated through the typical evening traffic. “You know, all these empty threats are really starting to take the bite out of your image. Either commit or admit that all your hostility comes from a deep-seated obsession with my asshole.”

Amelia gave him a look that could curdle milk.

“I’m just saying,” Sam shrugged, “if you want it, all you have to do is ask.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Not on the upholstery you’re not.”

She fought back a laugh, her attention catching on every speck and stain that adorned the inside of Sam’s beloved truck. The vehicle had seen much worse than a little vomit in its time, and they both knew it.

“You’re not allowed to pick your dates anymore, by the way,” Sam said, sighing. “I swear, you have some sort of dick magnet on you. And not the sexy kind.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, letting her head droop onto her shoulder and staring up at Sam through her lashes.

“To be fair to me, this is the first time Matt’s called you in like a year.”

“That doesn’t count when this is the first time you’ve been on a date in like a year.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, returning her attention to the window. Sam cranked the volume as Nickelback blasted through the speakers, slapping his palms against the wheel in time with the beat. A jerk like Derek Harris could never bring Sam down, not even when he had to unceremoniously eject the scumbag from their favourite restaurant.

Sam and Amelia had been regulars at LJ’s ever since they moved to Royersford. Matt was the owner’s nephew, so he’d been on staff the first time they’d stumbled across the place, lost and in the wrong neighborhood after a drunken night at the college bar. While they didn’t see much of each other outside the diner, Matt always made time for them whenever they stopped in. In fact, it was his idea for Amelia to start bringing her dates there, so she’d have backup if things went sour. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. Despite Matt’s kindness, Amelia was typically able to handle things herself. Still, it was nice knowing that the staff at LJ’s were looking out for her when a situation came up that she couldn’t handle alone. Like Derek Harris.

They’d met only a couple of weeks prior at the Ursinus College student services office. Amelia was Derek’s little sister’s assigned admissions counselor, and he’d asked her for her number after crossing paths when he came to pick up Aretha after her appointment. He seemed charming enough, so Amelia had given it to him. Only five minutes into their date, she knew she’d made a mistake.

“Are you going to get one of the other counselors to take on Harris’s sister?” Sam asked conversationally. Amelia knew better; he wasn’t asking, he was telling her what he wanted her to do. She had no intention of listening, of course.

“What? And rob me of the chance to watch him squirm every time he comes in?” Amelia gave him a sly grin. “Not a chance.”

“Why did I know that?” Sam shook his head disparagingly. “Fine, but I’m walking you to your office for the next few weeks. I don’t trust that guy.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

Amelia watched Sam discreetly out of the corner of her eye, looking for any sign that Matt had told him what caused her date with Derek to blow up in the first place. She decided he hadn’t. If he had, Sam would never be this calm.

As if reading her thoughts, Sam glanced over at her.

“So, tell me, Milkshake Molly,” he teased, backing into his preferred parking spot at their apartment building. Spots weren’t formally assigned, but the residents had formed their own loose system. “What exactly did Harris say to incur your wrath?”

“Oh, you know,” Amelia shrugged her shoulder, elbowing the Tacoma’s door open and easing her legs out, “typical sexist bull. I believe it had something to do with the fact that I ordered a cheeseburger instead of a salad.”

It didn’t. Ginny, LJ’s veteran waitress, had pulled Amelia aside to tell her that she’d seen Derek slip something into her milkshake. She wasn’t going to tell Sam that, though. She wouldn’t be able to stop him from committing a felony.

“That’s so fucking stupid,” Sam said, clicking the lock on his key fob and looping his arm around Amelia’s shoulders in the same motion. She fell into step beside him, retrieving her apartment key from her back pocket. “I can’t believe some men still think that way.”

“Women too,” Amelia grimaced, “I’ve had more than one teenage girl give me the stink eye when I ask for large fries.”

“I take it Harris showed his true colours before you could eat?” Sam guessed. Amelia nodded regretfully. “Well, you’re in luck. I’m making Sammy’s Spicy Spaghetti.”

Amelia made a face that was equal parts intrigue and concern.

“You’re not putting the same sauce you used last time in there, are you? That Devil’s Pepper stuff? You couldn’t get off the toilet for an hour.”

“No Devil’s Pepper this time,” Sam vowed. “Scout’s honor.”

“In that case,” Amelia jiggled the handle to their apartment door, lifting as she inserted the key. It was a finicky lock that needed a bit of finesse to conquer, but they’d found their system over the years, “to the kitchen with you, Fisher. I’ll get the garlic bread out of the freezer.”

“Way ahead of you, Amy Baby.”

“Oh, come on!” Sam yelled, sitting bolt upright and jostling Amelia’s nearly empty bowl of spaghetti. It made a valiant effort to reach the floor, but she managed to wrangle it back into the safety of her grip. “That was offside!”

“Stop screaming,” she said, shoving her back into Sam’s chest, forcing him to relax into the couch cushion again. He did, albeit with some adamant grumbling. “Mrs. Schwartz is going to call the building manager on us again.”

“It’s not even eight!” In lieu of lowering his voice, Sam shoved an entire half-slice of garlic bread into his mouth— her half-slice of garlic bread, no less— and used his free hand to tug Amelia further into the clutches of their deteriorating sofa. She was already practically on top of him. He’d be using her as a blanket if she fell any more. “Besides, it’s not my fault. Blame the officials.”

Yeah, she’d heard that one before.

Gently placing her now-finished bowl on the coffee table, Amelia relented and settled against Sam’s torso. He hummed in contentment, squeezing her just enough to dispel any remaining distance between them. She huffed in exasperation, knowing there was no use in trying to worm her way out of this. Sam always was a terminal cuddler.

He was also an obnoxious sports fan.

As much as Amelia resented Mrs. Schwartz and her strange habits, she couldn’t blame her for the occasional noise complaint. All through high school and college, Sam was a dedicated football player. And he was good. So good that, after graduating from Ursinus with the appropriate degree, he was hired on as an associate athletics trainer. Sam lived, breathed, and bled sports; not just football, although that was his favourite. It was a rare evening that the Fisher-Bradley apartment wasn’t streaming a game of some kind. Today, it was hockey. And Philadelphia was losing.

“I knew I should’ve cheered for the Pens,” Sam muttered, downing the rest of his beer in two large gulps. Amelia took the empty bottle from him and put it on the table next to her bowl.

“We live too close to Philly for you to start walking around in black and yellow,” Amelia reminded him, though she knew he was bluffing. Growing up just outside of Chicago meant that the Blackhawks were his true team. Going to school in Philly has given him a soft spot for the Flyers.

This late in the year, the world outside of their living room window was stained with black despite that it was only seven in the evening. As much as Amelia appreciated the beauty of fall, she hated how early everything turned to darkness. It was unsettling, and by mid-November, she’d already be longing for the soft light of summer. She didn’t like the dark, especially when it was cold.

Her phone buzzed, distracting her from the fight that had broken out between two of the teams’ third-liners.

Derek Harris was arrested. The milkshake on his shirt tested positive for Rohypnol.

The text was from an unknown number, but that didn’t matter. Amelia knew who it was.

You okay?

The question seared her, dredging up instant and festering anger. Terrence didn’t care if she was okay. He knew it, and she knew it. The only reason he’d texted her at all was to ease his own guilty conscience, and Amelia wasn’t responsible for making him feel better. Especially when his inaction had almost cost her her life.

She almost told him as much, letting her anger dictate her words with stinging vehemence. Before she hit send, Amelia forced herself to pause and take a deep breath.

Cussing Terrence out wouldn’t help anything. She’d already tried that. Many times.

Instead, Amelia deleted her message and sent back a simple: Yes. Then, she blocked his number.

He wasn’t the first person from the Chicago PD to reach out to her in the last year, and she was sure he wouldn’t be the last. At first, she’d wondered how they were getting any information on her at all. She wasn’t in Illinois anymore. It took her screaming into the phone at three different officers to find out that someone had a contact in the local precinct and forwarded anything that bore her name directly to Terrence. She’d filed a complaint, but it didn’t go anywhere. Her only option was to avoid the cops altogether, and she was pretty good at it.

Except, of course, when disgusting pigmen tried to drug her.

“Hey, I can see steam coming out of your ears,” Sam said jokingly, jostling her. “What’s going on?”

“Just a text from Terrence,” she said, knowing there was no point in lying to him. “Checking in about Derek.”

That was the one benefit of Chicago PD’s collective guilt about the way they’d treated her; Amelia frequently avoided the more tedious aspects of interactions with law enforcement. She had no doubt that Derek Harris sold her out immediately— how else would Terrence know she was involved? Yet, she hadn’t been contacted by her local officers. Not once. And she knew she wouldn’t be. Whatever contact Terrence had with the local precinct, they’d keep her out of whatever they could as part of some ill-driven act of repentance.

“Did you tell him where he can shove it?”

“More or less.”

Sam was satisfied with that, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He’d lost all interest in the hockey game; with a score of 5 to 2 in favor of the Tampa Bay Lightning and only 45 seconds left in the third period, the Flyers wouldn’t be taking home the win on this road trip. He yawned, drawing her into him like he was clutching a teddy bear.

“Remind me to grab my shower stuff in the morning,” Sam said, already sounding half-asleep.

“Why don’t you pack it tonight?”

“I want to shower before we go to the airport.”

“It’s not a long flight, Sam,” Amelia said disparagingly. “Can’t you just shower when we get there?”

He cracked open an eyelid to peer at her, his disbelieving expression telling her that he thought her suggestion was utterly insane. Amelia raised her hands in surrender. She knew better than to argue with Sam over the seemingly nonsensical decisions he made, particularly when the topic was mundane.

Excitement and trepidation plagued her at the thought of their morning flight. She was looking forward to visiting the Somerton cabin again, of course. It had been years since they’d made the trip. Now, though, they were traveling in the middle of a municipal politics warzone and the aftermath of a tragedy.

As much as she’d pestered Sam about his reluctance to go, their roles had reversed over the past week.

Speaking to Tyler about the bear attacks in Somerton had the dual effect of triggering Sam’s desire to do whatever he was told explicitly not to do, and making Amelia wonder if there was more to be worried about than she initially thought. Tyler wasn’t as foolhardy as Sam, but he definitely had a defiant streak. If he was warning them away, there must be a serious reason. If Sam hadn’t called Tyler the next day and talked it over, deciding that a short visit would be totally fine, Amelia would’ve canceled their tickets already. Not that that would’ve stopped Sam. Her stubbornness was no match for his enthusiasm or for Mrs. Fisher’s anxiety over her investment.

The cabin was worth a lot of money, more money than Amelia could fathom. Construction going on around cabin county was a serious cause of concern for the status of their property value.

With no reasonable out in sight, Amelia instead set to doing her research.

She was good at that. Her first therapist had referred to her unique talents as a result of her ‘delinquent behavior’ as a youth, but Amelia preferred to think of them as finely honed survival skills. So did her new therapist, who was much more understanding about her upbringing than the first guy. Amelia wasn’t surprised when she later found out his family boasted multiple Boys in Blue.

Information came readily to her when she wanted it. Amelia wasn’t nearly adept enough to call herself a ‘hacker,’ but she could work her way around some rudimentary firewalls. Simple maneuvers that she picked up from a combination of YouTube videos and practical experience. After their trip had been finalized, Amelia began gathering whatever information she could about the bear attacks.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t much. Even bypassing some region blocks and password-protected webpages, the most she could find was a snuffed article about evidence of Native American artifacts being found near the bear’s den. Finding nothing more of value, she’d turned her attention to rabies research. That hadn’t helped either, in fact, it raised more questions than answers. The situation in Somerton didn’t fit any kind of previous rabies outbreaks Amelia could find. Rabies was present year-round in some locations, the residents relying on local news to inform them if any diseased animals were seen wandering near town. Nothing like the Somerton killings had ever been reported before, not that Amelia could identify. And yet the media attention had faltered after only a few weeks. Something wasn’t right about that.

Then again, a wilderness expert she was not. When Amelia caught herself starting down a conspiracy theory rabbit hole at two in the morning the night before, she’d decided to let the whole thing go. She was confident in her intelligence, but she couldn’t ignore the fact that she had diagnosed anxiety. Sometimes, she struggled to separate the instinct from the illness, and when the tinfoil hats broke out, that was a good sign that she was in too deep.

“You know, I don’t want to hear you complain about how forgetful you are anymore,” Amelia said in a grumble, elbowing him in the ribs. Getting Sam to finish packing tonight wasn’t a task she was prepared to undertake. She didn’t have the energy. “Every time I suggest something to help you, you never listen. At this point, you’re your own worst enemy.”

“Maybe I just like making you feel useful.”

“My middle finger feels pretty useful right about now.”

Sam laughed, adjusting his grip on her until she was both uncomfortable and completely trapped by him. Amelia shoved her palm into his stomach, making him gag and release her just as her cell phone buzzed again.

“Tell Terrence to focus on his own jurisdiction,” Sam growled, reaching for her phone. She didn’t give it to him, furrowing her brows in confusion.

“I blocked his number,” she said absently, unlocking her phone screen. When she saw the name, her stomach sank. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“What?”

“It’s Derek.”

“What?” Sam sat up, bringing her with him. Amelia opened the message with a grimace, not knowing what to expect. “Why is he texting you?”

“Probably to tell me to go fuck myself,” she guessed, planning to block his number as well without even reading the message. It wasn’t a text, though. It was a photo.

Specifically, it was a photo of Derek’s fully erect penis.

Amelia urged dramatically, turning the phone screen so Sam could see what she was dealing with. He mimicked her reaction, snatching the phone before she had a chance to stop him. Amelia lunged for it, worried about what he might say or do.

“Let me handle it,” he begged, holding the phone out of her reach. “Please? I swear I won’t do anything illegal. Honest.”

“Illegal or borderline?” She regarded him with suspicion.

“I swear. I’m just going to… match his energy.”

Amelia was still trying to work out what that meant when Sam bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him and clicking the lock into place.

From the brief look she’d gotten, Derek must’ve posted bail and was back at home. She didn’t think he’d get away with sending a dick pic in a jail cell, no matter how rich and white he was.

Sam was in the bathroom for enough time that she was beginning to wonder if he’d called Derek and was in the middle of a heated verbal battle. Amelia braced her arms on the edge of the cushions, preparing to stand and knock on the door when Sam finally emerged.

“Done and done,” he said cheerfully, holding out her phone to her. “Derek Harris has been thoroughly put in his place.”

“What did you do?” Amelia demanded, rushing over to him. She grabbed her phone out of his hand, looking for Derek’s conversation, only to find it deleted. “Sam! What did you do?”

“Relax, Amy Baby,” he said, appeasing her. “I told you. I matched his energy.”

When she still didn’t get it, Sam clarified.

“I sent him a dick pic.”

“You… sent him a dick pic.” Amelia blinked at him in amused shock. “Like, an actual dick pic, or did you Google one?”

“No, it was mine,” Sam assured her proudly. “With the caption ‘she already found a bigger one.’”+

“Sam!” Amelia fell into a fit of laughter, shaking her head in amusement and shock. “I hope for your sake you’re not bluffing. He has the photo to compare.”

“Do you want proof?” He eyed her mischievously, waggling his eyebrows. She gave him a withering look, communicating her exasperation through a multitude of slow blinks. Suddenly, Sam’s expression shifted to one of surprised delight.

“Did you just glance down?” He asked her, an incredulous smile stretching across his face. Amelia’s face blanked, opening her mouth to protest, just not quickly enough. “Holy shit, you totally did. You looked.”

“I did not!” She had. As much as she wanted to be telling the truth, she’d instinctively flickered her attention to Sam’s jeans for a fraction of a second.

“You’re curious,” Sam said, a triumphant smirk overtaking him. “You want to know what I’m packing.”

“Samuel Peter Fisher, if you don’t shut the fuck up immediately—” Amelia let the end of her threat hang unfinished in the air between them, only because she had looked, however briefly.

“Hey, hey, a little curiosity is natural,” Sam mused, strutting through the living room and spreading himself out over the couch. He crossed one leg over the other, hooking his elbows over the back of the couch, and vaguely gestured toward his crotch. “If you ever want to take it for a test drive…”

“Oh my God,” Amelia propelled herself into the hall, giving him the middle finger over her shoulder, “I can’t deal with you right now. I’m getting a shower, tonight, before we have a plane to catch.”

“A cold shower?”

She didn’t need to look to know that her projectile made contact. Sam’s grunt as her sweater walloped him in the face was more than enough confirmation.

Safely tucked away in the bathroom, she sent a text to Roxy.

Your brother’s being insufferable again.

Less than two minutes after the text was sent, her phone rang.

“I can give you ten minutes,” Roxy breathed into the phone. She was panting from exertion, crowded voices marring the clarity of their connection. “I’m in between runways.”

“I just need you to convince me not to murder him,” Amelia said, crouching to examine the cupboard beneath the bathroom vanity. She was mostly packed, but a few things still needed gathering. “He sent Derek a dick pic.”

“What?!” Roxy’s astonished laughter crackled through the phone. Her university’s auditorium didn’t have much in terms of reception, so Amelia wasn’t surprised to only catch half of her cackling. “Okay, context. Now please.”

She explained, in complete detail, the events of her disastrous date and the fallout from it. Roxy listened intently, adding the occasional distressed noise to convey her attention, pausing to answer questions from the models and seamstresses milling around her. By the time Amelia was done, the line was much quieter. Roxy had probably moved to the bathroom.

“What a douche,” Roxy said, sniffing in disgust. “And a really unfortunate return to the dating scene for you.”

“Tell me about it.” Amelia sat down on the vinyl tile, crossing her legs. “First date in a year and the guy tries to drug me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have broken it off with Ben after all,” Roxy said drily. “He was a saint compared to that guy.”

“I’m not sure anyone could make Ben look like a saint.”

“You’re right. You should have stayed with Alex.”

“If he hadn’t moved to Paraguay, I might’ve.” Amelia leaned back until her shoulders touched the wall. Their bathroom was tiny, even by apartment standards. She couldn’t stretch her legs out at all without kicking the vanity, the toilet, or the shower. “Your sympathy for me is truly touching, by the way.”

“Oh, come on,” Roxy laughed. “We both know this was a pity date. You weren’t actually interested in the guy.”

“It’s the last pity date, that’s for sure.” She almost left out ‘pity,’ but she didn’t want to have that conversation again. Not that it mattered; Roxy picked up on her meaning anyway.

“Amelia, what Ben did to you was beyond fucked up,” she said, and Amelia could hear the anger behind her words. “You don’t have to force yourself if you’re not ready. No one is going to blame you for taking a break from guys.”

“I’ve been taking a break,” she argued. “I’m pretty sure a year is more than enough time to get over it.”

“It’s not even half the length of your relationship.”

“Don’t say it like that, it makes it sound like…”

“Like I’m right?”

Amelia laughed, conceding the point. This time.

Truth be told, her lack of interest in dating had nothing to do with Ben anymore. Yes, Ben had messed her up for a while, and his timing couldn’t have been worse considering the news she’d received not three weeks later, but all of that pain had faded a long time ago. She hadn’t forgiven him- she didn’t know if she had that in her- but she wasn’t letting him dominate her life.

No, her reluctance to get back on the horse was a lot simpler than that.

For the first time in her life, Amelia was happy. There were no oppressive clouds hanging over her head, at least none that bore an oncoming storm. Her past lingered, as it always would, but it didn’t control her anymore. She was free to do whatever she wanted, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to risk her contentment just yet.

And then there was Sam, but she couldn’t talk to Roxy about that. Not without too much squealing and I-told-you-so’s.

“Sam told me you started your medication again.”

Roxy’s tone was cautious as if she didn’t know Amelia’s feelings on the matter. She hummed in confirmation, sizing up the open make-up bag on the counter.

“As a precaution. I was feeling a little on edge after the funeral. I’ve been thinking about going off them again, but I don’t want to jump the gun.”

“So soon? Really?”

“It’s been months.” Amelia heard Sam walk by the door and into his room, singing off-key to a song she didn’t recognize. “Things have been calm lately. I think I can handle it.”

“Whatever you think is best, I trust you,” Roxy paused, listening to someone else in the room. “Shit, I gotta go. They need me. Text me later though, okay? I want to talk about you guys coming to visit, and I need to know if Derek responds to Sam.”

“Of course,” Amelia said, smiling. “Break a leg.”

“Always!”

—

When she found him after her shower, Sam was sprawled comfortably in his bed, eyes closed, sweatpants on, and his hands folded beneath his head and pillow. Amelia knocked on the door frame, and he cracked an eye open to look at her.

“There you are,” he mumbled sleepily, loosing one arm to beckon her over. She crossed the room in three strides, crawling into the mountain of blankets on Sam’s bed and curling against his side. He wrapped his arm around her, securing her to him. “How’s Rox?”

“Good, busy.” Amelia tilted her head back to look up at Sam, still hovering on the edge of sleep. “She wants us to visit.”

He hummed noncommittally, adjusting his position so there was no space between her body and his. They stayed like that for a while, Amelia listening to the slow pace of Sam’s breathing until she too felt her lids growing heavy.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Mm?”

She paused, choosing the right words.

“Dating is overrated,” she settled on after a time, releasing her pent-up stress in one long, bone-weary sigh. “Single living is a lot less complicated.”

“You got that right,” Sam mumbled, squeezing her. “Seriously though, I’m sorry about Derek.”

“Fuck Derek,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, I didn’t want to go on the date anyway. After what happened with Ben, I’m more than happy spending the rest of my life with you in this shitty little apartment.”

“Well, we both know that’s not going to happen,” Sam snorted. “We’d get a house eventually. A condo, at least. I can’t handle living here for another 60 years.”

“Fair point.” Amelia laughed, fixing her gaze on the ceiling. “I’m not really joking, you know. If this is what my future looks like, I’m good with that. As long as your wife-to-be is fine with me third-wheeling for eternity.”

“If she’s not, then she wouldn’t be my wife,” he said. “Am, everyone in my life, past, present, or future, comes second to you. You know that.”

“I don’t think that bodes well for your relationship status.”

“Then I guess we’ll be single together.”

Amelia fell silent, chewing on her emotions. They were tangled, as they always seemed to be with Sam.

“If you wanted to put some space between us, you’d tell me, right?”

Sam opened one eye to glare at her, warning her off of this particular line of thinking. Amelia ignored him, stubbornly wanting to say her piece.

“You can’t tell me that this,” she gestured to their position, cuddled together in his bedroom, “would fly with most women. When you were dating Dee, we barely hugged, and she was still jealous of how close we were.”

“Dee was jealous of how close I was with the cashier at Dollar General,” Sam scoffed. “She’s not a great frame of reference.”

“Okay, but the point stands. I can’t see many women being comfortable with their boyfriend lying in bed with another woman, friend or not. I wouldn’t be. And I don’t want to be the ‘girl best friend’ that everyone hates.”

“Are you telling me you want to start using your own room again?”

“I’m saying that I’m more than happy to take a step back if it makes things easier for you. The most important thing to me is being respectful toward you and any girl you date. You know, other than Dee. But that was different.” Amelia propped herself up so she could read his expression. “I don’t want your relationships suffering because you’re too afraid to tell me the truth.”

Sam opened his eyes to look at her properly, scrutinizing her face.

“Am, I’m single right now because I want to be. I’m here right now because I want to be. My relationship with you is more important to me than any hypothetical girlfriend, so, no, I don’t want you to put any space between us. That’s the last thing I want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“And if anything changes?”

“I promise, you’ll be the first to know. But as of right now, I’m probably going to end up marrying you anyway. Unless you find someone else before we turn 40.”

They’d made that pact long ago, as a joke, but now she wasn’t so sure. The thought of spending the rest of her life with Sam was exactly what Amelia wanted, married or otherwise. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of saying that, though.

“Well then I’d better rethink my plans,” she deadpanned. “I’d rather be married to a Rangers fan than you.”

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK!” Sam cried in outrage. “Amelia Geraldine Bradley, if you think for one FRACTION OF A SECOND that I would ever let a fucking Rangers fan anywhere near you, you’re out of your damn mind!”

She laughed, fully, her belly hurting with the effort. One surefire way to get under Sam’s skin was to throw around some rival teams.

“Relax, Sammy Honey,” she said teasingly. “I promise that if I ever date another sports fan, it’ll be from a Western Conference team.”

“If you ever date another sports fan, he’ll be cheering for the Bears, the Eagles, the Blackhawks, or the Flyers. No exceptions.” Sam reached over her and yanked on the chain switch of his bedside lamp so hard that it teetered. “Now, goodnight. This conversation is giving me heartburn.”

With another poorly-contained laugh, Amelia relented, snuggling into Sam’s embrace like she had so many nights before. For a long time, this was her only safe space. Now, it was merely her favourite.

It wasn’t long before they were both sound asleep, oblivious to the symphony of city noise outside their cramped apartment.