Page 42 of When Death Whispers

Hudson’s voice, low and rough, cuts through the silence like a knife.

I jolt like I’ve been electrocuted.

He steps into view a second later, hoodie pulled on, hair still damp from a shower. He smells likeme. Like my tangerine blossom soap. His ocean-blue eyes meet mine, and my stomach does this traitorous flip, like it’s happy to see him.

He stops when he sees me sitting upright on the couch, wide-eyed and blushing like I’ve been caught in the middle of something—which, to be fair, I kind of have.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. His voice is soft. Careful.

“You didn’t.” My voice cracks, so of coursethatlie holds no weight at all. Awesome.

He raises an eyebrow, not calling me out, but not buying it either. “You okay?”

I nod too fast, pulling the blanket I don’t remember grabbing tighter around myself. “Yeah. Just… weird dreams.”

His mouth tightens. Something flickers behind his eyes, and for a second, I wonder if he knows. Oh god, did I say his name out loud while sleeping? Did he hear me moan?But he doesn’t press further. Only nods slowly like he’s chewing on something, then takes a step closer.

And my whole body reacts like it’s still caught in that dream.

That forest.

Him.

He stops a few feet away—respectful, careful—but his gaze doesn’t leave mine.

“You sure?” he asks, softer this time.

I force the lie again. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

But I’m not. Not even close. Because I don’t know what was real. And I can’t look at him without remembering the heat of his body against mine.

And he doesn’t even know.

Right?

Hudson drags a hand through his damp hair, those white streaks catching the light, more vivid than yesterday. His shirt clings to his chest—hisownshirt this time, not mine—but all I can see is the image of him bare, holding me like he never wanted to let go.

He clears his throat. “We should eat something. I can make toast or something?”

“Yeah,” I manage. “Toast sounds good.”

He moves into the kitchen like he’s lived here his whole life. It should be weird. But it isn’t. It’s weird that itisn’tweird.

I follow, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders like armor. Night seems to have fallen now, and I’m left wondering how long I slept.

I go back to the couch to grab my phone and notice with a start that the side table lamp is back on, bulb intact, and there is no glass anywhere. I had completely forgotten about the light exploding and now I’m more confused than ever.

Did I dream everything? How much of it was real?

It felt real. But was it?

I shake my head absently, returning to the kitchen where Hudson is already busy grabbing the bread and sliding it into the toaster, hands steady, movements efficient. I go to the fridge, desperate to be useful, even though my hands are shaking slightly.

“Want anything for your toast?” I ask, trying to sound normal.

“Butter would be good,” he says. But his voice is rough now—raspy, like he’s not sure he trusts it.

I pass him the butter dish, and our fingers graze. A jolt of heat rockets through me. He freezes. Just for a second. But it’s long enough to feel thissparkzipping between us. His knuckles twitch, and for the briefest moment, I think he might drop the dish entirely.

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