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The night feels heavy, like the air itself is pressing down on me. I pull my hoodie tighter as Hudson drives us to the bakery, his jeep rattling over cracked asphalt.

He got Gerald from the mechanic shop to come change both flat tires this afternoon, while I was getting ready for our shift. He refused to go home to get changed, though, so he’s still wearing my pink Florida souvenir shirt and those too-tight sweatpants.

Neither of us say much. He’s gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, and the tension is as thick as the storm clouds still hanging low over Creek Haven.

I press my forehead to the window, watching the streetlights roll by. In the reflection, Hudson stares straight ahead, lips set, jaw locked. The white streaks in his hair catch the dim glow of the streetlights, and guilt churns in my stomach. He shouldn’t be here. Not after what happened.

But Hudson’s still here. Still driving. Still staying.

And that scares me more than anything. I was ready to pack up and leave earlier, to try and outrun my monster again and leave the peaceful town and the handsome heartthrob behind, safe and death-free. But it is now clear that there is nowhere I can run where he won’t find me.

And Hudson is more tangled up in this mess than I anticipated, and I have no idea why. Why him?

People who get too close tend to get hurt, or worse, die. None have ever heard his warnings spoken aloud and survived. What makes Hudson different? And is it because of him that his shadows are suddenly so… possessive?

By the time we pull into the bakery’s tiny parking lot under the weak glow of a flickering neon sign, I’m practically vibrating with unease. Hudson cuts the engine and glances over.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gentler than I expect.

“Fine,” I lie, fumbling with the door handle. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t push any further, but I feel his gaze lingering on me as we walk inside.

The bakery looks exactly as it did yesterday—quaint, familiar, surrounded by thick woods—but something feels… off. Like the shadows between the trees are watching. It’s never felt this... charged before. Like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff and going down whether I want to or not.

Inside, the familiar scent of flour and sugar hits me, but it doesn’t calm the tightness in my chest. Donovan is still here from supervising day shift, perched on a stool near the counter, squinting at the ledger in front of him. He glances at us as we enter, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Even with the front counter bustling with end of day patronage, it feels eerily quiet.

“You two look like hell,” he grunts, but there’s no bite to it. He’s usually a pretty serious man, more focused on the admin and logistics of running a bakery, than the actual baking side of it.

“Rough day,” Hudson replies smoothly.

Donovan hums in response, already turning back to his paperwork.

The lights hum softly overhead, steady, but something in the corner of my vision flickers. I glance over—nothing there. My pulse spikes anyway. He’s getting bold and I let my guard down too long.

Hudson notices my reaction. “What is it?” he whisper-shouts, his voice sounding as unnerved as I feel.

Donovan looks up, confused. “What’s what?”

“Nothing,” I say too quickly. “Just jumpy today.”

“Parker—”

“I’m fine,” I cut in, heading to the back for an apron before either of them can ask more questions.

I tie the strings a little too tight and try to focus on work. But that uneasy feeling won’t leave me—the one that says something is off, something’s here. I catch movement from the corner of my eye. A shape too tall, too slow, too deliberate. But when I look? Gone.

“Parker,” Hudson says again, his voice closer now. I jump, spinning to face him, only to find Donovan watching me too, his brow furrowed.

“You sure you’re good, kid?” Donovan interjects, concern laced in his gravelly voice.

“I’m fine,” I say again, but it comes out weaker this time. I blow out a breath and paste on what I hope is a convincing smile. “Really. I’m fine.”

Hudson doesn’t look convinced, but he seems on edge too. And if even Donovan is noticing me acting weirder than normal, then I must be doing a poor job of hiding it.

Jenna arrives a few minutes later, cheerful and chipper as ever, her brown ponytail bouncing as she bursts through the front door like she owns the damn place, not Donovan.

She must be covering for Betty again, who usually has the night shift with us. Fuck.

It’s not that I dislike Jenna really, but she’s ridiculously chatty. And I am… not.

“Well damn ,” she says with a smirk, eyes locking onto Hudson as soon as she spots him. “That pink really brings out your eyes.”

Hudson doesn’t even glance up from the tray he’s loading. “Yeah.”

She laughs like he’s said something charming instead of dismissive. “Seriously. You totally pull it off.”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like kill me now and steps away, putting the counter between them without looking back. If Jenna notices the snub, she doesn’t let it show.

She turns to me, a fake smile locked and loaded. “Didn’t realize you were sharing your closet. That’s… cute.”

I arch a brow but say nothing, letting the silence do the talking. Her smile falters just enough to satisfy me before she flounces into the back, humming off-key like she didn’t just try to stake a claim on someone who isn’t hers. It’s interesting that she pays enough attention to notice he’s wearing my clothes.

Her presence is… odd. It’s annoyingly normal, but it still scrapes at my nerves like sandpaper. Some people get to exist in this world without looking over their shoulder. People like Jenna. She flirts, she hums, she takes up space like nothing can touch her.

Meanwhile, I’m still checking the corners of every room for shadows.

And the tension keeps building.

The shift is slow after Donovan leaves. The bakery shop closes for the night, the noise of the hustle and bustle from the front dying off and leaving the constant hum of ovens and mixers in its stead.

I move through the motions—mixing, measuring, baking—but every so often, I feel it. A shift in the air. A dark smear in the corner of my vision. A brush of something that doesn’t belong. A flicker of movement where there shouldn’t be any in the brightly lit kitchen. But it doesn’t feel like my monster. It’s not the usual dread of impending death.

But my heart leaps to my throat every time, thinking this is it, this is when the rules change and he steps out from the shadows and I die. But when I look, there’s nothing…

I’m not the only one who notices. Hudson keeps glancing at me, his frown deepening with each passing hour.

“Parker,” he says when I pass him another tray of cupcakes. “Are you sure?—”

“I. Am. Fine,” I cut him off, more sharply than I mean to. His eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t push further. Still, I see the worry in his intense blue eyes, and it’s almost worse than if he’d argued.

Guilt hits me instantly, Hudson doesn’t deserve any harsh treatment, especially since he now knows my motivations for keeping people at bay, but I’m too on edge right now to explain myself. And it’s really not the time or place.

By the time we hit our break around midnight, I’m ready to scream. I escape to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and avoiding the mirror like I usually do. The fluorescent light buzzes faintly overhead, steady and unchanging, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is watching me.

It’s not my monster. I know that much. The dread he brings is suffocating, like drowning in darkness. This is different. Lighter, almost curious. It’s the same presence I could feel back at my house. But that doesn’t make it any less unsettling. At least my monster usually comes with a warning. This, whatever it is, feels like an unknown. Unknowns get a person killed in my world.

When I return, Hudson is still near the counter, arms crossed, the pink fabric of my shirt stretching across his chest. He looks tired, the white streaks in his hair catching the light, but he’s alert. Watching me. Jenna’s in the back on her break, thankfully out of sight.

“We need to talk,” Hudson eventually says.

“About what?” I ask. Shit. I really don’t feel like talking. Especially not with both of us severely lacking sleep and our nerves shot.

He gives me a look, his gorgeous blue eyes seeing everything I’m not saying. “You’ve been off all night. Something’s wrong.”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know how.

“It’s like the air’s crowded,” he continues. “Like there’s something else here, fighting for space. I know you feel it too.”

The lights flicker. And I feel it this time, that familiar shiver down my spine. Then something moves behind him. I see it. A flash of shadow, jagged and reaching. Too fast. Too close.

My body moves before my brain catches up.

“Hudson, duck!” I shout, lunging toward him.

He stumbles to the side just as a metal dough scraper flies past, the sharp edge whistling through the space his head occupied a second ago. It slams into the wall, embedding in the wood with a sharp thunk that echoes louder than it should.

Hudson whirls to face it, chest heaving. “Jesus Christ.”

I don’t say anything. Not right away. But there’s no point in pretending anymore. No point in lying or trying to spare him. He was almost just killed by my monster. Again.

“That wasn’t an accident,” he says, voice low, steady. Too calm for what just happened. “Something threw that.”

I nod once. “Correct.”

His eyes snap to mine.

“I felt him,” I whisper. “The same as last night. Just before he…” I trail off, swallowing thickly with fear.

Hudson exhales sharply, like the confirmation makes it worse somehow. “What does he want though? Why is he doing this?”

I look at the dough scraper, still trembling slightly where it’s lodged into the wall. “Right now? You.”

Hudson goes still. “Me?”

I nod again, slower this time. “I told you, anyone who gets close to me is in danger. You touched me. You stayed. You matter. That makes you a threat.”

There’s a beat of silence between us, thick with everything unsaid. Then, finally, Hudson speaks again. “I matter…” He repeats on a whisper, like he’s testing the words to see how they fit on his tongue, like they are new and foreign to him. Has he never felt like he mattered before? To anyone? My heart squeezes at the thought that it took my fucked up baggage for him to hear those words.

“So… what do we do?”

I meet his gaze. “We survive. We stay in the light. We don’t give him shadows to hide in.”

Hudson nods, but it’s not relief that passes over his face—it’s resolve. That same stubborn grit he always hides under jokes and charm, making the ocean blue of his eyes turn turbulent and stormy. “Then we don’t give him a single damn inch.”