Page 25 of When Death Whispers

Parker.

My Snow Pea.

9

After dryingoff and throwing on some yoga pants and a ratty t-shirt, I stumble into the kitchen, still shaky and confused, to find Hudson’s still here. He’s sprawled on the couch like he belongs here, arms crossed, head tilted back against the cushions. He’s not asleep, I don’t think, but his eyes are closed, his face pale and pinched. The faint streaks of white in his hair seem brighter than earlier, like they’re mocking me.

I lean against the doorframe, watching him for a moment. He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that. And stupid. So, so stupid. And really fucking cute. Damn him.

I notice he seemed to have cleaned up while I was sleeping and changed his clothes.

Wait a damn minute…

“Is that my shirt?,” I blurt, my voice raspier than I’d like. He opens his eyes, the dark circles under them making me feel another wave of guilt I don’t have time to unpack.

“Told you,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I’m not leaving. I needed to get rid of the mud and my clothes were all ripped. So, I borrowed yours. I’m wearing your sweatpants too.” He shrugs his wide shoulders, and my eyes trail down his arms, which I notice are corded with muscle and bursting out of my big pink, normally loose-fitting, Florida souvenir shirt. It fits him perfectly, however, highlighting his muscled chest and abs.

The nerve of him, I swear. I’m envious, once again, of his ability to just make himself at ease wherever he is.

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the fact that my big gray sweatpants also fit snugly on him, also highlighting… other parts. That I will not acknowledge. Nope.

That’s when I notice the coffee mug in his hands. Did he make himself at home enough to use my kitchen, too? I secretly hate and love that he looks good in my clothes, that he’s comfortable in my house, that he found my mugs and coffee and that it looks and smells so good I want a cup too.

“You should,” I mutter. “Leave, I mean. It’s safer.”

“I don’t know… last night definitely proved that I’m in way over my head,” he shoots back, sitting up straighter, “and you’re not exactly overflowing with backup here, Parker. Neither am I. Who will even believe me? So, no. I’m staying.”

I sigh, turning away before I say something I can’t take back. I can’t help it. It’s my defense mechanism when it comes to keeping people away and out of my nightmare. It’s easier than having to see their reactions when they find out how much baggage I bring. Definitely hurts less too.

Usually.

But now? I don’t know anymore. Especially when he’s sitting on my couch, drinking out of my favorite mug, wearing my clothes like he’s been living here a while. It’s sort of nice. I sort of hate it too.

“Fine. Whatever. I’m too tired to argue with you today.”

Sounds like a simple dismissal, but really I’m trying to avoid all the conflicting emotions that he’s dredging up. He’s really good at that.

I busy myself by pouring a fresh cup of coffee, every movement automatic. The stillness of the house should be comforting—everything well-lit, shadows pushed into corners where they belong. But it isn’t. There’s something wrong. I can feel it like an itch under my skin, crawling and insistent. That sulphur smoke smell from last night never came back, but the strange feeling that came with it never left.

Hudson clears his throat behind me, and I glance back to see him leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his tired blue eyes locked on me.

“Do you feel that?” he asks.

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. “Feel what?”

“Like we’re not alone.” His voice is low, cautious, and the way he says it makes the hair on my arms stand up.

I want to tell him it’s only his imagination, that he’s tired and jumpy because of everything that happened. But the words don’t come. Because I feel it too.

I set the mug down carefully, listening. The house is silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floor as I shift my weight. But the silence feels… wrong. Heavy.

“The monster,” I whisper, the word slipping out before I can stop it. My hands curl into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms.

Hudson stands, his movements slow, deliberate. “Is he here?”

“I don’t know.” My voice wavers. “It doesn’t feel like him, but…”

Before I can finish the thought, the lights flicker. Just once, a quick blink, but it’s enough to send my pulse racing. My breath catches, and I reach for the counter to steady myself.

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