He’s Not going to kill me

Tyler whips out a clear pack of Sour Patch Kids—variety edition, the kind coated in an almost excessive layer of sugar, their grinning faces frozen mid-squirm. The bag is nestled deep in his left bedside nightstand, just barely brushing against a cluster of white prescription bottles. My eyes flicker between the two. "That's my favorite candy," I murmur, feigning nonchalance, but the question bubbles up inside me: Why is it hidden?

"Oh, me too. Especially the effects of them an hour after I eat them." Tyler’s fingers skim over the plastic, fishing for a blue one tucked in the corner. He plucks it out and flicks it into his mouth with easy confidence. The bag rustles as he tilts it toward me. "Want one?"

My stomach tightens. "Wait—are these like… special Sour Patch Kids?"

Tyler’s mouth quirks, his dimples barely forming, his amusement contained just under the surface. "Marissa, they’re edibles."

My lashes flutter as if blinking more will help process the words. A question mark practically hovers above my head. He watches my reaction, his head tilting slightly, his body shifting to face me more directly. The plastic crinkles in his lap as he scoots forward, sitting crisscross on the bed.

"Have you never gotten high before?"  

"No," I admit, exhaling sharply as I blow a stray curl from my face.

"Oh, honey," he murmurs, the words slipping out in something close to a sigh. He reaches forward before I can react, his fingers catching the rogue strand and tucking it gently behind my ear. His touch lingers just long enough to send a ripple through my chest before he pulls back, cracking the packet open wider and holding it out to me.

I lean in slightly, my curls nearly grazing the soft fabric of his worn beige t-shirt. My gaze flickers between him and the pouch, scanning the neon candies inside. "So there’s like… weed in them? Wait—" My voice climbs an octave, panic blooming in my chest. "Isn’t it illegal to have these in New Jersey? How do you even have these??"

Tyler chuckles, warm and lazy, as if my concern is endearingly naive. A faint pink dusts his cheeks. "My brother bought them for me as an apology gift."

My brows knit together. "Apology for what? Also, I didn’t know you have a brother."

His smirk dims. "Yeah, I wish I didn’t."

"Woah." My fingers tighten around the edge of a pillow—not the one closest to him, but the one further away, like I need some buffer. I pull it against my chest, my arms locking around it protectively.

"Apology because he said something he shouldn’t have to my dad, and we got into a fist fight over it. He’s a delinquent. But hey, I got candy." Tyler lets out a brittle laugh. It’s wrong, too forced, the edges of it jagged. Like he’s trying to laugh the weight away but it refuses to budge.

I shift, my fingers curling into the pillowcase. "Where is he now?"

"Jail." His tone is flat, a blunt instrument cutting through the moment. Then he exhales, drumming his fingers against his knee before flicking his eyes back to mine. "Are you going to take an edible or what?"

I tighten my grip on the pillow, but my fingers twitch. "What happened? If you don’t mind me asking."

Tyler studies me for a beat, his expression guarded. I reach into the bag, hovering, before finally plucking out a single yellow candy. I cup it in my palm, feeling its sugar crystals press against my skin, rolling it between my fingers—not committing, just letting the weight of the decision sit.

Tyler watches, his jaw tightening just barely before he exhales through his nose. "He tried to kill his girlfriend. Or something. She reported him. I don’t know, I’m not close with him."

The candy feels heavier now, like I’m holding something more than just a gummy.

"Christ," I whisper. 

I open my fist and look down at the sugar pieces scattered across my palm from the yellow candy. The granules glisten against my skin, tiny flecks of hesitation dusted between the creases of my fingers. I place the candy on my tongue, pressing it against the roof of my mouth before swallowing dry. Tyler watches closely, nodding once in approval before twisting his torso toward his nightstand and sliding the bag back into the drawer.

He swings his feet off the bed, black socks sinking into the thick carpet as he pushes himself up with his triceps. His frame stretches as he stands, his straight brown hair falling over his temples only for him to comb it back with a quick motion—futile, as it falls right back into place.

"Wanna play a game or something for like an hour?" he asks, turning toward me.

I smile, reaching for his pillow and carefully setting it back where it belongs, fluffing it and karate-chopping the middle. "Yeah!"

He chuckles at the gesture, then twists the doorknob open, extending a hand behind him for me to latch onto. His fingers wrap around mine securely as he leads me down the stairs. The soft padding of my feet barely keeps up with his bounding steps, his runner’s quads controlling each descent like he’s on an agility drill.

The second we hit the kitchen floor, the chaotic skittering of paws echoes against the tiles. I barely register the blur of fur before Tyler groans, tilting his head back in exasperation.

"BLAZE, GO," he commands, pointing toward the living room.

His eyes flick back to me, already heavy with exhaustion, like he’s fought this battle too many times. But I can’t help it—I want them to jump on me. They’re too cute.

He sees my expression and sighs dramatically. "I am so sorry," he mutters, shaking his head in mock embarrassment.

I laugh, and he turns away, stepping over the baby gate and wading through the pack of excited, overzealous dogs. "COME HERE," he orders, his voice firm yet affectionate. Paws scramble as the dogs follow his lead, their playful energy momentarily subdued by his presence.

"STAY," he commands, and I hear the reluctant huffs as they settle.

Then he’s back, reaching a hand out for me again, his expression softer now. "Okay, now you can enter."

I grab onto his hand and step over the gate, and he leads me around the corner into the kitchen. The rich aroma of pot roast wraps me in warmth and spice. A medium-sized woman with straight blonde hair stands by the oven, a red bowl in one hand, balancing a fork in the other.

“Mom, what are you doing home?” Tyler’s voice is sharp, edged with something between confusion and mild irritation. His back stiffens, shoulders creeping up just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting this and doesn’t quite know how to react.

I linger behind him, watching.

She’s mid-bite, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. Her voice is low, intimate, like she’s speaking just for him. “I just came back quickly to eat. Don’t worry, I’m on my way back out.” There’s something dismissive about it—like she’s barely registering his discomfort, like his reaction is expected, even routine.

I shift to Tyler’s side, stepping fully into view, offering a small, goofy wave, my bare nails flashing as I wiggle my fingers.

The change in his mother is instant. Her face brightens, eyebrows shooting up, mouth stretching into a wide, gap-toothed smile. Tyler looks almost identical to her—same deep brown eyes, same sharp features—but where his expression is tense, hers is unfiltered joy.

“HIIII! Are you Marissa?” she exclaims, setting the bowl down with a clatter and moving toward me with open arms.

I barely have time to react before she pulls me into a quick but tight hug.

“Hi, yes!” I say, surprised, but smiling.

“It’s so nice to meet you!” she beams, squeezing my arms before letting go.

Tyler, meanwhile, is already at the basement door, his back turned, his hand gripping the handle with unnecessary force. “Okay, we will be downstairs,” he cuts in abruptly, his voice clipped, an urgent edge to it. His body language screams escape.

His mother either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Her attention flickers back to me, eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity. “Is that your natural hair?”

I instinctively reach up, twirling a loose ringlet between my fingers. “Yeah.”

“It’s beautiful, wow! I wish I had thick curls like that. Mine’s so thin, I can’t do anything with it.”

I let out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you! I always liked straight hair though.”

Tyler’s fingers tighten around the basement door before he shifts his weight between his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. I catch the signal—he’s done. I reach for his hand, interlacing my fingers with his, and with a quiet breath, we slip down into the basement, leaving his mother behind in the kitchen.

The soft blue glow of the basement TV projects shadows against the worn leather couch and the old wooden coffee table. The air carries the crisp scent of laundry detergent mixed with stale popcorn and the faint, lingering notes of Tyler’s cologne, embedded in the fabric of the cushions. The mini fridge buzzes low and constant, filling the silence as I sink deeper into the couch, stretching out my legs until my bare toes barely brush the edge of the table. 

"Want anything to drink?" Tyler asks, yanking open the fridge door. Cool air escapes, wrapping around my ankles like a whisper.

I glance over, my eyes dragging across the fridge’s contents—rows of beer, seltzers, and canned drinks, meticulously lined up as if untouched, some still bearing their price tags like stickers on a new toy. Were these for tonight? For us?

"I’ll take a seltzer."

Without hesitation, he grabs a pack of White Claws, then smoothly ducks beneath the TV console, retrieving a small, well-worn deck of cards from one of the shelves. He slams both onto the coffee table with a confident thud before dropping down onto the carpet, folding his legs beneath him. 

"Do you remember how to play Kings?" 

I scoff, crossing my arms. "Oh, DO I."  

Tyler chuckles, the sound rich as he tears open the box of booze and pulls out three cans: two pineapple, one lime. He places the lime one in the center of the table and slides a pineapple one across to me, the chilled metal gliding smoothly over the wooden surface before stopping perfectly in front of me.

I pop the tab, and the sharp hiss follows, a mist of carbonation fizzling at the opening. I let the bubbles relax before setting it onto one of his coasters, watching as he spreads the deck into a perfect ring around the lime can. He finally cracks open his own drink, taking a deliberate sip before flicking his gaze up to meet mine.

"You nearly hazed me with juice the first time," I mutter, shaking my head. He had stacked rule after rule against me, fully aware I had no clue how to play, just to watch me suffer through a horrifying mix of beer, juice, and whatever else got tossed into the communal cup. The humiliation still stings a little, but mostly, I remember how hard he laughed—because, of course, he did.

"Well, don’t be bad at the game this time then."

I narrow my eyes, setting my drink down with a click. "Well since i now actually know how to play… I'll be great. Better than you actually."

His smirk widens. "Great, because it’s boring winning all the time."

I roll my eyes but lean forward, my fingers grazing the edge of a card. 

The night is stretching, warping, slipping into a hazy blur where time doesn’t move the way it should. The warmth of the alcohol has settled deep into my chest, spreading like a slow burn through my veins, making my limbs feel lighter, my thoughts slower. Tyler is still stacking cards, and my brain refuses to do the math on whether I’m actually winning or if I just feel like I’m winning. Probably the latter, but the logic is too much for me to handle right now.

Then he flips a card.

“Five,” he mutters, and groans immediately.

HAH. He has to drink. Again. “AGAIN!” I nearly yell, giddy with his loss. He sighs dramatically and lifts the can to his lips, but something happens. Or at least, I think something happens.

All of a sudden, the sound around me disappears, replaced by a high-pitched ringing that drowns out everything else. It’s like my thoughts have been vacuumed out of my head, leaving nothing but a dull, empty static. My brain feels scrubbed smooth, wiped clean, like someone just took an eraser to everything I knew. I blink, but even that feels delayed, like I’m lagging behind my own body. His arm, his movement—it’s like I’m watching through a slow-motion filter. He tilts his head back, and my brain hyper-focuses on the way his throat moves, the slow bob of his Adam’s apple, the can hovering in the air for what feels like an eternity. How much is he drinking? How is it taking this long? Is he trying to drink an entire ocean? I stare, dumbfounded, like I’ve just been lobotomized, my ability to process basic logic slipping right through my fingers.

I glance up at him, but the moment my eyes land on his face, the world tilts. No—he tilts. Why is he tilting? Why is he sitting like that? He looks sideways, like gravity forgot about him. My brain tries to recalibrate, but all it does is confirm that, yes, Tyler Richard is currently defying physics.

And that is the funniest thing I have ever seen in my entire life.

Laughter erupts out of me, raw and uncontrollable, tearing through my body like a live current. It sparks at my fingertips, spreads to my chest, and then boom—I’m gone, overtaken by the kind of joy so consuming it feels like my insides are catching fire in the best possible way. My stomach clenches, but instead of pain, it’s like a fizzy, bubbling warmth radiating outward. My veins hum, my skin tingles, and suddenly, I feel like I’ve been plugged directly into the sun, every inch of me buzzing with golden, radiant energy.

Tyler blinks at me, completely lost, and that kills me all over again. He has no idea what’s happening in my head, no idea that his stupid, stupid head tilt just set off a chain reaction I can’t stop.

And then—he tilts his head again.

Oh no.

It gets worse.

I shriek, folding in on myself, my entire body trembling with laughter. The room, the air, even my own thoughts feel lighter, like I’m floating somewhere just above reality. Every giggle sends another surge of warmth through my limbs, like I’ve become a human-shaped firework, crackling and bursting with every breath. I swear, if I let go, I might just lift off the ground entirely.

Tyler watches me for a beat, and then his lips twitch—before he’s gone too. He laughs, deep and breathless, his whole body shaking with it, and it’s electric. Like watching a star explode, like feeling sound ripple through my skin.

“WHAT ARE YOU EVEN—” Tyler gasps between breaths, but I can’t even hear him because my brain has decided all sound except for laughter is irrelevant.

My body gives up. I collapse into the couch, still dying, still clutching my ribs. “YOU’RE—YOU’RE—” but I can’t even finish the sentence because what am I even trying to say?

We are just two absolute lunatics, lost in some infinite loop of laughter, feeding off each other’s chaos. It’s like the universe pressed the fast-forward button on joy, like we’re a fire being stoked higher and higher, and there’s no stopping it now. I try to catch my breath, just for a second, and glance at him—really look at him. His eyes are squinted shut, his smile is wide and unfiltered, and my chest swells, warmth blooming like the softest supernova.

I can’t stop laughing, but now it’s not just because of whatever nonsense started this. It’s him. He’s amazing. He’s ridiculous. He’s here, laughing with me like nothing else in the world matters.

And right now, nothing else does.

Tyler swishes his pineapple can, gives it a little swirl near his ear, trying to hear the faintest swoosh inside. Nothing. He crushes it in one hand and chucks it across the room. It sails through the air in a perfect arc—clink—straight into the trash. He throws his hands up like a victorious athlete, basking in his own glory.

He reaches for the next can in line—the lime one, still full, with the deck of cards wedged into the tab from the game. He grips the cards, giving them a strange little wiggle, his fingers working with a suspicious amount of intent.

Crack.

The seal bursts open and his eyes go wide in exaggerated horror.

“Oh NO!” he cries, but it’s completely unserious, full of mock devastation. He freezes mid-motion, head whips to one side. Then the other. Like he’s checking for an authority figure, someone lurking in the shadows, ready to snatch the can from his hands to revoke his drinking priviledges. A devil on his shoulder. A ref to blow the whistle. Someone—anyone—to tell him he wasn’t supposed to do that.

But no one stops him. In a single, shameless motion, his lips curl into a devious grin— with all the grace of a man who planned this from the very start, lifts the can to his mouth and chugs.

I lose it.

I smack my hands together, barely containing my glee. “This,” I announce, slurring slightly, “is the most craaaziest thing I have ever witnessed.”

Tyler slams the empty can down like he just won a championship. “History has been made,” he declares.

“Prove it.”

His head tilts, amused. “I literally just did.”

I wave a hand at the scattered cards on the table. “No, we didn’t even finish the game.”

He scoffs, tapping his chest. “Yeah, but I finished for you,” he says, tapping the empty lime can with his fingers.

“Which means I win.”

I shake my head, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. “That’s not how winning works.”

He stretches his arms out, shaking them loose like he’s warming up for something. “Say I won,” he teases, stepping closer.

I cross my arms, barely containing my laughter. “Absolutely not.”

Before I can react, he lunges. Three long strides, his knees bent, arms outstretched like two giant claws. His fingers twitch in anticipation, like they’re charged with electricity. I barely have time to react before his hands strike—digging into my ribs, finding every ticklish spot like a seasoned professional. I scream, twisting violently, trying to escape, but it’s useless. My body betrays me. I flail, my limbs completely out of my control, my head thrown back into the couch as uncontrollable laughter explodes from me.

“STOP, I CAN’T— I CAN’T BREATHE!” I gasp, writhing like I’m being zapped.

“Say IT!” he demands over my breathless cackles. Tyler is laughing, his body shaking above me as he mercilessly attacks. His legs get tangled in mine as he shifts onto the couch, pinning me down in my helpless, pathetic state.

“NEVER!” I shriek, half-laughing, half-dying, my voice cracking from the force of my resistance. My legs kick wildly, my arms slap at him in a desperate, ridiculous battle I am very clearly losing, but surrender is not an option. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.

With the last ounce of strength I can muster, I reach behind me, fingers clawing at anything I can find. My hand lands on a pillow, and without hesitation, I swing.

WHACK.

It nails him right in the side, and he freezes for a second, stunned.

“WOAH!” he yells, then grins. He loves this.

I see my opportunity and hit him again, this time with more force. But he’s faster. His reflexes are sharp. His hand snatches the pillow mid-air, stopping my attack in one smooth motion.

His grip tightens, his eyes gleaming, and then—without breaking eye contact—he launches it. I watch, in awe, as the pillow soars across the room like it was meant to fly, landing perfectly on the ping pong table with a crisp thud.

My stomach tightens. Heat crawls up my spine, curling around my neck, spreading to my cheeks.

Oh no.

Why was that throw the hottest thing I’ve ever seen?

The fizzy, lighthearted euphoria settles into something deeper, something warmer—something that wraps itself around my nerves like a slow burn. It’s no longer just static and sunshine. It’s heavy, molten, pooling low in my belly, spreading through my limbs in slow waves. My skin feels hyperaware, hypersensitive, like every inch of me is tuned in to him.

My brain malfunctions. My body betrays me again, but this time, in a very different way. I suddenly feel too warm, too alive, too conscious of the fact that he’s still right there, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. My focus narrows, zeroing in on the the sharp line of his jaw, the way his brown eyes haven’t left mine.

And then he moves.

He’s already taken my breath, inhaling it straight from my lungs, stealing it before I even realize it was mine to keep—then he kisses me.

My legs hook around his waist instinctively. My arms follow, curling around his neck, fingers threading through his hair, tugging slightly just to feel the way he shivers. His hands start in my curls, fingertips grazing my scalp, trailing down slowly, mapping their way along my sides—and then he strikes AGAIN. I convulse like I’ve been hit with a shockwave, a high-pitched, completely unhinged squeal ripping from my throat. He’s losing it, laughter rolling out of him in deep, reckless waves.

I thrash, but his weight is an immovable force, pressing me into the cushions, his broad thrower frame unshakable. His grip tightens, keeping me exactly where he wants me. I try to yank my left arm free, but his reflexes are too fast—he catches my wrist mid-motion, pinning it above my head with just one hand, like it’s effortless.

I let out a frustrated groan, twisting under him, but he just shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, a slow, knowing smirk creeping onto his lips.

“You can’t get out of this,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing—but thick with satisfaction. His fingers flex slightly against my skin, making a point of his dominance, like he’s letting me know exactly how much stronger he is.

Heat coils in my stomach. Oh. Oh, I like that.

I need to break free. I need to win.

I blow in his face.

His eyes flutter shut for a millisecond, wincing at the air hitting his skin.

I seize the moment.

I twist hard, slipping from his grasp, flipping onto my stomach, stretching my entire body across the couch in an escape attempt—but he’s on me instantly. His hands clamp around my waist, fingers digging into my sides, yanking me back toward him like I never stood a chance.

“Heyyy, you can’t do that—that’s cheating,” he protests, but he’s laughing. He likes the fight.

I squirm, but my stomach lands on the cushions, my legs still draped across his lap. My pulse jumps.

I try to roll, shifting my weight—

And suddenly, I’m straddling him.

Everything stills. 

His head falls back against the couch, pupils blown out, eyelids heavy, red-rimmed from the high—yet somehow, still completely locked onto me.

And God, I feel everything.

The weight of his thighs beneath mine. The press of his fingers at my hips, not gripping, not restraining—just holding, letting me know I’m here because he wants me to be. A pulse of warmth spreads through my chest, curling around my ribs, sinking into every part of me like a slow, rolling wave.

“Well, this is okay though,” he mutters, his voice rough, cracking low from deep in his belly, his smirk lazy, easy.

The dim lighting catches the angles of his face, casting soft shadows along his jaw, brushing against the mess of his hair, highlighting the fullness of his cheeks as his lips twitch. His fingers flex against my skin, grounding me, sending a slow burn through my veins.

And suddenly, I feel unstoppable.

I’m on top of him, and I feel on top of the world.

He makes me feel on top of the world.

My face hurts from how much I’ve been smiling, but I don’t want to stop. I don’t think I can stop.

And then he looks at me—like that. Like he sees me, past every layer, straight to something I don’t even have the words for.

His hands slide lower, his palms pressing into my bottom, his thumbs tracing slow, teasing circles against my skin. My breath hitches. I reach for his hair, pushing my fingers through it, tugging lightly before dragging my hands down, following the lines of his arms, tracing the veins in his forearms, and finally, hooking my fingers over his.

His gaze darkens.

Something in my belly flips. My skin burns.

I feel like I’m glowing under his touch.

The silence between us isn’t empty—it’s alive, thick unspoken ease, something stretching and pulling like a thread wound too tight. But it’s not tense. It’s not awkward. It just is. I let my fingers run over his knuckles, feeling the ridges, the warmth of his skin. He does the same, thumb brushing slow, absentmindedly over my own. Like he’s learning it, like the motion is second nature.

It feels good. He feels good.

My senses are dialed up, stretched thin, every look from him sinking deeper, every second elongated and syrupy, like time itself has softened at the edges. It’s too much and not enough. He’s intoxicating, the way he takes up my entire focus like nothing else exists outside of him.

This is it.

This is what I want.

The thought slams into me, deep and absolute. I want this. I want someone like him. Someone who makes me feel elevated, like life is more than just routine, like every moment is worth feeling this much. The realization isn’t just in my mind—it’s in my chest, expanding, pressing outward, stretching against my ribcage like it’s demanding to be set free.

I don’t care if this feeling fades tomorrow. I don’t care if the high warps it, makes it something smaller in the daylight.

Right now, it’s everything. Right now, it’s real.

And I can’t keep it inside any longer.

I need to tell him.

“Tyler, I hope to find someone like you in college.”

His brows pull together, and then—

His entire face softens.

His mouth curves down, not in sadness. His fingers tighten slightly against me, his chest rising with a quiet inhale. “Aww,” he breathes, shaking his head slightly, his smile gentle, his voice softer, like the words touched something in him he didn’t expect. “That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard from someone.”

His lips find my collarbone first, soft and slow, trailing downward to my chest, then traveling upward to my neck, lingering there as if he’s memorizing the feel of me against him. His breath is warm, teasing, until finally—he reaches my lips.

I sigh into him, my body melting into the heat between us, but then—

“Tyler… my eyes are really dry.”

He pulls back slightly, blinking at me, and then bursts out laughing, forehead dropping against my shoulder. “What the hell?” 

But my stomach twists, an uneasy knot tightening, curling deeper into itself.  “You’re just high, you’re fine.” His voice is steady, firm. “My mouth too.” My tongue feels swollen, thick, useless. My throat is dry, each swallow sticking halfway down, like I’m trying to force sand through a straw.

His voice dips, repeating slower, heavier. “You are just high. You are fine.”

“Are yours dry?” I lean back, scratching my head, fingers raking against my scalp as if I could dig my way into some kind of clarity. Tyler inhales deeply, chest expanding as if he’s holding something in, then exhales through pursed lips, pressing them together like he’s forcing the breath out through a filter.

“Yes, they are,” he finally says, voice flat. “Let’s get something in the kitchen upstairs then.”

His legs shift beneath me, and I roll off him, my limbs sluggish, my thoughts struggling to latch onto anything concrete. He moves toward the door, opens it, and suddenly, the last few moments feel… distant. Warped. Did that just happen? Or was it some vivid hallucination, a flicker of thought that never actually left my head?

Where exactly are we going?

My brain fumbles through a foggy list of possibilities, none of them making sense. Think, Marissa. Think. I glance at him. He’s already on the other side of the door, head tilted slightly, eyes scanning me. “You alright?”

I force a slow blink, like maybe my vision will realign, like maybe that will ground me. “Yeah.” My brows knit together, but I push myself forward, legs unsteady, and follow him upstairs.

The kitchen is dark, the only light spilling in faintly from the hallway. Tyler flicks on the switch, stabbing my pupils, too sharp and too intense. The contrast between the dim basement and this blinding brightness sends my head spinning. 

The red bowl is gone. The spot at by the oven where his mother had stood is empty. She really did leave, just like she said. No trace of her lingers except the faint scent of the roast. Tyler doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t say a word about the empty house, but the way he lets out a quiet breath, the way his shoulders seem just a little less stiff—it tells me enough.

 My feet pad forward toward the island, body on autopilot—

Two loud thumps against the hardwood.

The world flips.

Suddenly, I’m airborne.

Blood rushes straight to my head, my breath vanishing in an instant. My body is weightless, flipped upside down, my brain screaming this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong—

I let out a sound that isn’t even human, a full-bodied scream, as if someone just yanked me into a different dimension.

“Wheee!!!!” Tyler hollers, his voice echoing through the kitchen like some unhinged carnival ride operator.

I’m spinning—literally spinning—twisted mid-air as the entire room blurs into a 360-degree whirlwind. His kitchen flashes by in dizzying snapshots—the countertops, the overhead lights, the fridge—before the living room whirls into view. His dogs sit patiently by their mats near the sliding doors to the porch, watching the chaos unfold like this is just another Tuesday.

Then—solid ground. The floor steadies under my feet, but my chest is still free-falling. My hands fly up, gripping the edges of the island as if I might somehow still be floating.

I’m panting, my pulse thrumming through my fingertips. Why did he do that?

Tyler's standing there, his playful energy dimming as his eyes scan my face. “Are you sure you’re alright?” His voice is softer now, dipping into something careful, something steady—like he’s caught onto the way my face has drained of color, the way I’m suddenly too still.

I cross my arms, staring at the floor, grounding myself. Oh. Oh. He always does this—picks me up, tosses me around, like I am lightwork, like he’s always in control. Normally, I’d laugh. Normally, I’d push him back, smack his arm, tell him to quit being a menace. You’re just high. You’re fine.

His hands hover slightly, like he’s debating whether he should reach for me, whether I might just tip over if he doesn’t. For a second, it feels like he might say something—but instead, he chooses to turn away. He moves toward the fridge like nothing happened, the handles squeak as he pulls them open.

“Do you eat cheese?”

I nod numbly, still processing.

He takes in a large sigh, grabs something, and slams a block of cheese onto the island with a finality that makes me jump. Then, he inches toward the knife block. My eyes flick to the long, glinting blade he pulls from the wooden slot. A huge chef’s knife. 

The overhead light catches the blade, reflecting bright and harsh. My breath stumbles, my heartbeat climbing higher. His feet pivot toward me, knife still in hand, but the angle—it’s not downward, not casual. The tip is pointed straight at me.

A sharp pang jolts through my chest.

A flash—a distorted vision, like I’m peeking through fogged glass. A man stands in a dimly lit kitchen, his grip tightening around a knife. The shape of his body—Tyler’s brother. His eyes wild, mouth curled into something inhuman. A woman stands trapped against the wall, her breath rapid, hands raised in surrender. She tries to talk him down, but her voice is static, lost in the rush of my thoughts.

Sirens. Police lights flickering. A 911 call. He tried to kill her.

The attempted murder. The bloodbath.

And now Tyler is standing in front of me, the knife glinting, his fingers flexing against the handle the same way his brother could have. His mouth is still smirking, but it shifts—stretches. His face changes, twisting at the edges like a criminal melting in the heat. His eyes narrow into dark slits, his lips curling too wide.

My breath shortens. What if it runs in the family?

I take two small, careful steps backward.

I need to leave.

My mind is racing. If he takes one more step, I can sprint to the mudroom. My friend can pick me up. 

Wait. No, I’m just high.

But what if I’m not? What if he’s violent too?

He’s going to kill me.

The knife. He’s still holding it. Still watching me.

The sound of the blade against the cutting board is too loud, every slow, rhythmic slice dragging on forever. The metal glints under the light, flashing with each careful motion of his hands. Too slow. Too precise. Too calculated. I’m too aware of everything. The sound of the blade scraping against the board. The flex in his fingers as he cuts.  

I can’t stop staring at it. My body is braced, locked in place, waiting for—

What?

For him to lunge? To close the gap between us? To do what his brother did?

“Why can’t you use the cheese knife instead?” My voice is small. Too small.

Tyler pauses mid-motion, blinking at me like I’ve just asked why the sky is blue. He exhales through his nose, a beat too long, before finally lowering the blade to the cutting board. 

“We don’t have one.” His voice is level. Neutral. But I don’t trust it. 

My arms press tighter against my chest. My leg bounces relentlessly against the floor.

The knife moves again. Slice. Pause. Slice. Pause.

He glances up at me, then back down. Like he knows I’m watching. Like he’s testing me.

“Have you ever had Gruyère before?”

I swallow. My throat feels like paper. “No.”

His entire demeanor shifts. The weight in his expression lifts. A gasp, over-the-top, exaggerated. “It’s the best cheese. My dad, the chef in the family, uses it all the time.”

He slides a slice toward me, tapping the board. “That’s for you.”

I don’t move. I don’t blink. The knife is still in his hand.

“Tyler, I feel really nervous right now.”

He lets out a long, weighted sigh, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth, nodding slowly like he’s giving himself time to think. Too much time.

Then, everything stills. His chewing slows. His shoulders drop first, easing, his fingers loosening on the handle before he slowly sets the knife down beside the cheese. His eyes hold mine now, not searching, not prying, just present. Open.

“I need to leave.”

His head lifts slightly. His posture shifts—less weight forward, more balanced, controlled, like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing. A quiet crease forms between his brows, and his lips press together, his throat bobbing in a slow swallow. His fingers twitch once at his sides before he nods.

Then, his voice drops, gentle, low.

“Let’s go to bed.”

I find the farthest corner of his bed, curling into myself, hoarding every available inch of blanket around me like a shield. My body is trembling, my fingers gripping the fabric so tightly my knuckles ache.

Tyler is across the room, rummaging through his dresser, his movements methodical. I hear the faint rustle of cotton before he turns, holding a pair of thick socks. He kneels beside me, lifting the bottom of the comforter, and slides the socks onto my feet one at a time. His hands are warm, steady, his touch careful like he knows I might break apart at any second.

Then he climbs in next to me, the mattress dipping under his weight. The room falls into darkness as he flicks off the bedside lamp. 

From beneath the bed, a soft meow breaks through the silence. My breath catches.

And then—

The room shifts.

I hear crickets. A soft, rhythmic hum, like a summer night in the woods. Then a faint banging—sharp, sporadic, as if doors are slamming somewhere in the distance. Then chickens. Chickens? Clucking, flapping, feathers rustling.

My hands tighten around the blanket. “Tyler, do you hear that?”

A groggy groan. “No, please go to sleep.”

His voice feels deformed, stretched too thin, like it’s coming through the static of a detuned radio. My ears ring, sounds layering over one another in a disjointed, feverish melody.

Then, movement.

The mattress shifts as Tyler tosses onto his side, his body pressing against mine. His arm drapes over me, his chest molding to my back, his legs tangling with mine, one hooking over in a loose figure-four shape. He doesn’t say anything, but he settles over me like a weighted blanket, his warmth radiating through every rigid inch of my body. It’s instinctual, grounding—like he knows I need to be tethered to something solid before I float too far into my head. The noise in my skull dulls. The rush of misplaced sounds fades into a background hum, my heartbeat slowing to match the steady rise and fall of his breath against my shoulder. I’m here. I’m here.

My eyelids droop.

Then my body jerks awake. A full-body spasm, like I’m free-falling.

Tyler groans, barely stirring, and turns his head deeper into the pillow. His grip still firm around me, like even unconscious, he refuses to let me unravel.

Twenty minutes pass. I know because I watch the clock tick by, second after second. I count them by the slow, even rhythm of his breathing, by the way his chest expands and deflates against my spine, steady, real. 

He’s asleep.

He’s asleep.

He’s not going to kill me.

A killer wouldn’t be sleeping like this. Unless they do. Unless he’s waiting for me to drift off first, waiting for me to be defenseless before—

No. That’s irrational. That’s the high talking. Believe him when he says I’m high.

I swallow hard, forcing my body to roll toward him. My head presses against his chest, where his heartbeat thrums beneath my ear, steady and real. But I’m still shaking. My feet are still cold.

I peek at the glowing red numbers on the clock across the room. 4:00 AM.

I let out a slow breath, squeezing my eyes shut.

I am never taking edibles again. And at this moment, I can say with my chest that it’s unlikely i’ll prefer to smoke weed in my lifetime.

The room hums with silence, heavy, but my mind won’t turn off. The paranoia still lingers in the corners, like a shadow waiting to crawl back in. But his heartbeat—steady, rhythmic, constant—keeps me fastened. Keeps me here.

I focus on it. Not the noise in my head. Not the way the high keeps twisting my thoughts into shapes they don’t belong in. Just this.

The inhale. The exhale. The warmth of him against me.

Maybe that’s what matters. Not what my mind is screaming, not the warped thoughts that make me question everything, not even the way tonight will probably feel like some distant fever dream in the morning. Just this—the fact that right now, he is here, and I am here, and I am safe. Maybe feelings don’t always have to be analyzed, broken apart, questioned to death. Maybe they can just exist, messy and unfiltered, without needing to mean everything.

I don’t know if the way he makes me feel is real or if it’s just the high stretching time, pulling emotions like taffy until they feel bigger than they are. But right now, he is warmth, and I am cold, and that is enough.

My fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. His breathing stays slow, undisturbed.

This moment doesn’t need to last forever. It just needs to last long enough to get me through the night.

And with that, I finally let myself sleep.