Chapter Two
~ Newton ~
If you’d asked me an hour before whether I’d ever end up hiding in a stranger’s living room, sucking blood from a split lip and listening for the sound of my own pulse over the grandfather clock’s tick-tock, I would have bet actual money against it.
I had a pretty good sense of my odds, generally. This was not a scenario I’d prepared for, but that was sort of my life’s running theme.
The McKenzie farmhouse was nothing like home. It was too big and too drafty, and instead of the Bridger-issue silence—which was only ever broken by someone yelling or a door slammed hard enough to rattle the dishes— this place seemed to hum with invisible activity.
There were animal noises—some real, some probably just the house settling around me—and the air smelled like wood polish and cinnamon and something vaguely floral, like a grandma’s hand lotion.
I liked it.
Mostly, I liked that nobody was yelling.
I’d made myself as small as possible on the edge of a battered leather couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight, chin against my chest.
My backpack—lifeline and security blanket—sat within easy reach. It didn’t actually contain anything useful for this situation, unless you counted the granola bars or the dog-eared field guide to Oregon native plants, which had gotten me through more than one panic attack.
The pain in my face was just background noise at this point, except when I forgot and tried to touch the swelling or when I moved my mouth and the scab pulled at the corner of my lip. Then it became a little universe of firecrackers, all going off at once.
I tried not to move.
I tried, mostly, not to think about why I was here, or what would happen next.
Knox’s mom—or grandma? The math was hazy—had fussed over me for a solid ten minutes when she learned I was here, and then pressed a mug of something hot and herbal into my hands and told me to “rest up.”
Her touch was surprisingly gentle, the opposite of what I expected from hands that looked strong enough to crush walnuts barehanded. The blanket she wrapped around my shoulders was scratchy, but heavy, and it worked better than any weighted therapy tool I’d ever tried.
Once she left, I was alone. It was just me and the ghost of whatever had happened in the kitchen a century ago, and a herd of dust motes swirling through a moonbeam that managed to sneak through the window despite the darkness outside.
My plan was simple—If I didn’t move, maybe I’d disappear. Maybe I’d slip between the molecules of the couch and sink into the floorboards and never have to face the fallout of being alive.
But fate—and McKenzie family metabolism—waited for no man.
I heard footsteps, impossibly light for something that shook the whole hallway. I straightened a little, forced my eyes open wide enough to catch movement in the corner of my vision.
There was a shadow in the doorway.
And then, abruptly, there was a person.
Correction, there was an entire person, an industrial-sized, family-ed version of a human, tall enough that they had to duck their head a little to enter the room.
For a second I thought it was Knox and my heart did the thing—leap, drop, panic, repeat—but the silhouette wasn’t right.
This guy was broader, with hair darker and shaggier and a posture that said, “I am trying very hard to take up as little space as possible, but am failing miserably because of physics.”
He hovered in the doorway, blinking at me, then gave a little wave.
I gave a smaller wave back, or tried to; the blanket limited my range of motion to something a baby hamster could muster. There was an awkward silence, which was pretty much the default around me.
Finally he said, “You’re Newt,” and it was not a question.
“Yeah. Sorry. For being here.” The words came out faint and embarrassingly high-pitched, like someone had just released a helium balloon.
He shrugged, which in his case was like watching tectonic plates shift. “I’m Harlow.”
I nodded. This was the gentle giant. Rumor around town said he could lift a cow one-handed and once got in trouble for hugging a neighbor so hard her ribs made a crack. That was probably an exaggeration, but I took the hint and kept my arms firmly locked to my own body.
He took a cautious step into the room, holding something black and lumpy in both hands. He squinted at me for a second, like he was cross-referencing my face against a mental database, then crossed the space and stopped two feet away.
“This is for you,” he said, and extended the thing.
I squinted back at him, then at the object.
It was a hoodie, XXL or maybe XXXXL, with the kind of pilling on the sleeves that comes from years of heavy use.
There was a faded logo on the front, but it had been washed so many times it was illegible, just a gray-and-white smudge.
It smelled like fresh laundry and wood-smoke and a little bit like pine.
I immediately wanted to put it on and never take it off.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to modulate my voice into something less mouse-in-distress. It didn’t work. I cleared my throat, which hurt, then tried again. “Thank you. It’s… um… cold in here.”
Harlow grinned. It was a full-face event, like watching sunrise over a mountain range. “That’s what Ma says.” He hesitated, then added, “You should eat something, too. Gran says the scones are best right out of the oven.”
“Okay,” I said. It sounded like a lie, but I meant it.
He didn’t leave right away. He stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, still smiling, eyes flickering from my face to the floor to the blanket to the hoodie.
“You’re not like your brother,” he said.
I flinched. “I—no. I’m not.”
“That’s good,” he said, matter-of-fact, then turned and ducked out of the room.
I sat with the hoodie in my lap, not sure if I was supposed to wear it right now or just keep it for emergencies.
After a minute, I gave in. I shucked off the blanket, ignoring the cold, and wrestled the hoodie over my head.
It was like climbing inside a tent. The fabric swallowed me up, draped past my knees, and the sleeves were so long I could have shoplifted a watermelon in each arm and nobody would notice.
I rolled the cuffs until my hands reappeared. They looked small and white and slightly ridiculous.
There was a mirror on the opposite wall, hung at a height better suited for people who did not spend most of their lives hiding under tables.
I caught a glimpse of myself. The bruise made me look like a cautionary tale, but the hoodie—black, vast, comforting—made me look like a child who had raided his dad’s closet.
I snorted.
The sound startled me.
“I look like a kid playing dress-up,” I said, not realizing I’d spoken out loud until the words bounced off the walls and made me cringe.
From somewhere down the hall, there was a muffled laugh. Or maybe it was just the house, settling. Either way, I didn’t mind it. For once, it felt like maybe I could exist without having to brace for impact.
The hoodie was better than any blanket, honestly.
It smelled like someone had bottled up the most comforting campfire on earth, added a handful of pine needles, and then thrown in a dash of—what was that?
Gun oil? Leather? Something hot and sharp and so unmistakably male that just wearing it made me want to sink into the cushions and become part of the furniture forever.
I hugged my knees closer, burying my face in the collar.
I didn’t have to pretend it was a shield.
It was, for now.
The sounds of the house faded. I listened instead to my own breathing, slow and regular, and the small fizz of pain whenever I stretched my mouth too far. I got used to it. Humans were highly adaptable. You’d be surprised what you can live with, given enough time and repetition.
I was tracing the seams of the hoodie with my thumb when I realized that I knew this scent. Not just the abstract idea of “male” or “comfort” or “firepit.” No, this was specific.
This was the aftershave I’d caught on the wind once, at the Memorial Day parade when I stood three rows behind Knox McKenzie and spent the entire service staring at the back of his neck.
This was the sweat and cedar and black coffee that had haunted me every time I passed him on Main Street or watched him unload lumber behind McKenzie Hardware, muscles flexing in a way that should be illegal in three states.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
This was Knox’s hoodie.
My first instinct was to rip it off and bury it under the couch, then set the couch on fire. My second instinct, which won the battle, was to keep it on and curl up tighter, inhaling until I could almost feel the outline of his arms where they’d stretched the cuffs.
Somewhere in the process, I drifted off.
I must have, because the next thing I knew the sun had gone from slant to full, and I was waking up with my cheek pressed to the rough fabric, lips parted, drooling a little. Great. Add that to the long list of Newt Bridger’s Greatest Hits.
I sat up quick, half certain someone was watching.
Someone was.
Knox stood in the middle of the braided rug, arms folded over his chest, a study in controlled violence.
The t-shirt he wore was nothing special, but it fit like a second skin and did nothing to hide the way his arms looked like they’d been chiseled out of something much less fragile than human flesh.
The veins popped in his forearms, a map of purpose, and the way his jaw worked suggested that he’d been standing there a while, thinking about things.
My brain flat-lined for a good three seconds before my mouth caught up. “Oh. Uh.” I wiped my lips on the sleeve, which seemed rude, but was better than licking them like a lizard. “Morning?”
His eyes flicked up from the hoodie—my hoodie, I guess, except not really—to my face, then did a quick survey of the room. “You sleep okay?”
I nodded, which hurt less than I’d expected. “Yeah. Thanks. It was—warm.”
He grunted, which I think was his version of a compliment.