Chapter 11
Stephanie
His breath hit the back of my neck first—hot, slow, deliberate.
I froze.
I was in my cabin. I knew I was. I’d fallen asleep with the bedside lamp on low, the quilt pulled to my waist, the quiet Texas night humming outside.
But suddenly the air smelled wrong.
That cologne. Not faint. Not imagined. Thick and syrupy, expensive and rotten all at once, slithering into my lungs. It coated my throat like oil, made my stomach pitch so violently I gagged.
No. No, no, no—
A voice brushed my ear. “Miss me?”
My blood went ice-cold.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The room tilted. The moonlit cabin walls bled sideways, then backward, then forward, warping like melting mirrors. The bed dipped under his weight—too heavy, too familiar.
“Thought you could hide?” he whispered, and every hair on my body lifted.
A hand—cold, greedy—slid around my throat. Not squeezing. Just claiming.
My pulse hammered against his palm, frantic and terrified, and he tightened—slow, controlling pressure that stole half my air, then more.
The sheets turned to restraints, twisting tight around my wrists and ankles, pinning me. The quilt turned to duct tape, silver and suffocating. It pressed over my mouth in a single brutal slap, sealing off any scream.
My lungs convulsed. My ribs—still bruised—lit up like someone had driven a knee into them. The pain was blinding, white-hot, stealing what little breath I had left.
Then the cabin disappeared entirely.
I was back in my LA bedroom. But wrong. Smaller. Tighter. The walls crawled inward, closing around me, squeezing until the ceiling bowed.
I tried to suck in air through my nose—nothing.
His mouth touched my ear. “You made me come all this way,” he whispered. “So I’m going to take my time.”
More hands grabbed my ankles, my waist, my wrists. An army of him. Pulling me down, spreading me out, stretching me thin.
A tooth scraped my throat. His thumb pressed harder into the side of my neck.
Black spots bloomed at the edges of my vision.
Dying. I’m dying.
I thrashed, every muscle screaming, but I couldn’t break free. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even sob.
His mouth brushed my ear again, intimate and monstrous. “Found you.”
My lungs finally gave up.
The scream tore out of me so violently that it ripped the dream to shreds. “HE’S HERE—HE’S HERE—HE’S HERE!”
I bolted upright in bed, hands clawing at my mouth, nails scraping my own skin. Sweat soaked my tank top. My hair stuck to my neck. The air was too thin, too sharp, too real.
The cabin snapped back into existence. The quilt. The moonlight. The dark wood walls.
My heart tried to punch out of my ribs.
The door didn’t just open, it blew apart under his shoulder, crashing against the wall with a crack that shook dust from the rafters.
Liam filled the doorway like a goddamn force of nature—barefoot, shirtless, eyes wild and sharp, gun raised in perfect firing position. His chest heaved from the sprint, muscles carved tight with adrenaline and terror.
He looked like he’d come here prepared to kill.
His voice was a whip—sharp, lethal, vibrating with the kind of fear you only feel when someone you love might be dying. “Stephy!”
He scanned the room in fast, practiced sweeps—corners, windows, shadows, under the bed, behind the door. His finger hovered by the trigger, jaw clenched so hard I thought it might crack.
He didn’t see a threat.
He saw me.
A shaking, sweat-soaked, gasping mess tangled in sheets. My hands still clawing at my own face. My breath coming in broken, choking bursts.
And the shift in him was immediate.
The gun vanished behind him. He crossed the room in three long strides. He was on the bed before I could blink.
“Steph.” His voice broke. “Steph, sweetheart, I’m here.”
He gathered me against him, arms wrapping around me like a shield, like a shelter, like a man pulling someone back from the edge of a cliff.
The heat of him hit me first—burning, solid, real.
I clutched at him helplessly. My fingers dug into his bare back, trying to anchor myself, needing to feel the muscle there, the strength, the Liam of him.
“He’s here,” I sobbed into his throat. “He’s here—Liam, he was here—”
“No,” he murmured fiercely, pulling me closer. “No, sweetheart. He’s not here. You’re safe. I swear on my life you’re safe. It was a dream. You had a nightmare.”
But my body didn’t know that. My lungs didn’t know that. My mind was still trapped between the dream and the memory, unable to escape either.
Liam’s hand slid up my spine, warm and steady, grounding me. “Breathe with me,” he said softly. “Come on, baby. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
He exaggerated his breathing—slow, deep, steady. I tried to match him, but each breath hitched, breaking on sobs I couldn’t hold back.
“You’re doing good,” he murmured. “Keep going.”
His fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my face up. His thumb wiped tears from my cheek with a tenderness that made my throat close all over again.
Finally, my lungs unclenched just enough. Air moved. Not easily, but it moved.
“There you go,” he whispered, relief thick in his voice. “That’s it.”
I sucked in a ragged breath, sat up fast, grabbing at my throat.
“Holy shit—” My voice broke. “Oh my God, that was so real.”
Another shudder ripped through me. “He was here. Liam, he was here—I swear—”
“Hey.” His hands came up to cradle my face, his forehead touching mine. “Sweetheart, look at me. You’re safe. You’re safe. Right here, with me.”
I gasped like I’d been underwater for minutes, dragging air into lungs that didn’t want to work. My whole body shook—violent, uncontrollable tremors.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, one hand sliding up and down my back in slow, grounding strokes. “You’re safe. Nothing’s getting to you while I’m breathing.”
My fingers fisted in his skin, clinging like he was the only solid thing in a world made of glass.
“Don’t leave,” I whispered, voice shaking so badly the words almost didn’t form. “Please…don’t leave.”
His arms tightened around me, fierce and protective. He cupped the side of my face, thumb ghosting over my cheekbone, grounding me in a way nothing else could. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He slid down onto the mattress beside me, pulling me fully into his arms. My head fit under his chin like it had always belonged there. His heartbeat thudded steadily against my ear—warm, reliable, the most comforting sound I’d ever known.
As the last tremors left my body, his lips brushed the top of my head.
Gentle. Careful. Protective.
Not crossing a line—but standing on it.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered as my breath finally, finally began to match his. “Sleep, baby, I’ll keep watch.”
His arms wrapped around me, one hand in my hair, the other spread across my back like a shield. He was so warm, so solid, like a living wall between me and the world.
Within minutes, his breathing changed, deepened, and evened out into the rhythm of sleep. And then—
He started snoring.
Not loud, window-rattling snoring like my dad used to do.
This was soft, almost musical—a gentle rumble in his chest that vibrated through his whole torso.
It was like lying on a purring lion. The sound was so utterly normal, so completely unguarded, that something in my brain finally accepted that we were safe.
If Liam was relaxed enough to snore, then there was no danger. My subconscious grabbed onto that sound like a lifeline. As long as the snoring continued, steady as a metronome, I was safe.
For the first time in weeks, I fell into deep, dreamless sleep.
The next day, I was exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-weary exhausted, like I'd run a marathon in my sleep.
The nightmare hangover clung to me—that particular combination of exhaustion and hypervigilance that comes after a bad one.
My body ached from the tension, my throat was raw from screaming, and I kept catching phantom whiffs of cologne that made me want to vomit.
"You okay?" Liam asked over breakfast, watching me push eggs around my plate.
"I'm fine," I lied, trying to smile. "Just tired."
He didn't push, but his eyes said he knew better.
That night, I was determined to prove I was okay. I went to my cabin after dinner, took a long shower, trying to wash away the lingering fear-sweat memory, and put on fresh pajamas. I climbed into my own bed, pulling the quilts up to my chin.
"I'm fine," I told the darkness. "It was just one bad night. I'm fine."
I lasted forty-seven minutes.
The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating.
Every shadow could hide someone. Every creak of the cabin settling sounded like footsteps.
My skin went clammy again, that awful cold sweat of anticipation.
My heart started its familiar terror-rhythm, and I knew—knew with absolute certainty—that if I stayed here, the nightmare would come back.
I padded barefoot across the yard to his house, the ground cold under my feet, the night air raising goosebumps on my arms. Through his unlocked door—God bless small-town Texas—down the hall to his room.
He was in bed, not asleep yet. Without a word, he lifted the covers. I slipped in, pressed against his side, my still-clammy skin seeking his warmth. He was like a human furnace, all solid heat and strength.
"Okay?" he murmured.
"Yeah."
His arm came around me, tucking me against him where I could feel every breath he took.
Within minutes, he was asleep. And there it was—that soft snoring, that gentle rumble that meant safety.
My body relaxed incrementally with each snore, muscles unclenching, heart rate slowing, the clamminess fading into normal warmth.
No nightmares came.
This continued for three more nights. The same routine—me insisting I was fine, lasting less than an hour alone before the fear-sweats started, the silent padding to his room, the wordless invitation into his bed. The immediate relaxation when his snoring started.
By the fourth night, I gave up pretending.
After dinner, I went to my cabin, got ready for bed—brushed teeth, washed face, put on the soft pajamas Sophia had brought that covered everything and made me feel safe. Then I walked straight to his house. No pretending to try sleeping alone first. No waiting for the terror-sweats to start.
He was already in bed, reading something on his phone.
He looked up when I appeared in his doorway, didn't say anything, just pulled back the covers.
I climbed in, settled against him in what had become our position—my head on his chest where I could feel the vibration when he snored, his arm around me, my hand over his heart.
"This okay?" I whispered.
"More than okay."
He set his phone aside, turned off the light. Within minutes, that soft snoring started—that gentle chainsaw purr that meant home.
“You snore,” I announced the next morning, stepping onto the porch with two mugs of coffee like I was delivering a public service announcement.
Liam, sitting barefoot on the steps in yesterday’s T-shirt and sweatpants, didn’t even look up from the tablet in his hands. “No, I don’t.”
“Oh, but you do,” I said, handing him a mug. “Loudly. Enthusiastically. With commitment.”
He finally glanced up, brow lifted. “I do not snore.”
“You absolutely do. Last night, it was like sharing a bed with a very warm, very muscular bulldozer.”
His mouth twitched. “A bulldozer.”
“A comforting bulldozer,” I clarified, taking a sip. “Like a construction vehicle that reads bedtime stories. Or—ooh—like if a grizzly bear got a sinus infection.”
That earned me a real laugh—the deep one that started in his chest and rolled outward. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m factual,” I corrected, pointing at him with my mug. “It’s important for your personal growth that you accept this truth.”
“Steph, I don’t snore.”
I set my mug down and held up one finger. “Evidence item one: at three forty-seven AM, you made a noise that shook the pillow.”
He snorted. “No, I didn’t.”
“Evidence item two: at four eighteen, I woke up thinking a motorcycle was idling in the bedroom.”
A slow, warm smile spread across his face—the one that made something low in my stomach tighten in that not entirely unwelcome way. While I had been fine with him saying not yet at the creek five days ago, I was now wondering when.
“And yet,” he said, leaning back on his palms, “you stayed.”
I swallowed, caught completely off guard by how…intimate that sounded.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I did.”
He didn’t comment. Didn’t push. Just let the air between us thicken with that soft, growing thing neither of us dared name.
So I took a breath and nudged the moment back toward laughter.
“Anyway,” I said lightly, “I’m thinking of leaving you a review. Five stars. Would recommend. Very soothing…in a rugged, lumberjack-adjacent way.”
His laugh came easier this time, fuller. “Lumberjack-adjacent?”
“Rough, but cozy. Snores with a heart of gold.”
The porch went quiet for a beat — warm, easy, not awkward.
Then Liam nudged my knee with his. “I’m glad you slept,” he said softly. I didn’t correct him. Didn’t pretend. Didn’t joke it away.
“Me too,” I whispered. “Because of you.”
That night, when I climbed into bed beside him, I said, "Hey, can you snore extra loud tonight? I want the full chainsaw experience."
"I don't control the snoring, Steph. It just happens."
"Well, try. Really lean into it. Give me your best work."
He pulled me against him, kissing the top of my head. "You're weird."
Within minutes, he was asleep, and there it was. Not too loud, not too soft, just right. The Goldilocks of snoring. I pressed my ear against his chest, feeling the vibration through his whole torso, letting it sink into my bones.
This was safety. This was home. This was the sound that kept the nightmares at bay.
"Thank you," I whispered, knowing he couldn't hear me over his own snoring. "Thank you for being my chainsaw teddy bear."
He snored in response, and I smiled in the darkness.
The nightmares never came when he was snoring. And he snored every night, steady as a promise, loud as safety, perfect as home.