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.
