He doesn’t even smirk—just gestures, deadpan, to my beanie, more specifically, to the bright-pink strand of hair that has apparently staged a daring prison break and is hanging out near my shoulder like a neon sign. It looks radioactive in the porch light. Impossible to miss.
“Oh my god.” I slap it back under the hat, face burning hot enough to power the cabin’s water heater. “It’s not—this is not my—well, it is, but—forget it.”
He watches me. Half a beat too long. Not like he recognizes me—not like he’s thinking,Hey, look, Lucky Pink crashed into my porch—just… curious. Quietly baffled. Like he’s trying to figure out what species I am and whether I’m dangerous or just inconvenient.
Good. Let him stay clueless. Being unknown feels like oxygen.
He finally holds out his hand. I pass him the key, and our fingers brush—warm, calloused skin against my cold, jittery ones. My pulse stutters. A full, embarrassing skip-thunk.
He doesn’t react. Of course, he doesn’t.
He kneels beside the door, full focus on the lock, and that’s when I notice how steady he is. No wasted movement. Everything deliberate. Controlled. The opposite of the chaos that buzzes under my skin like static.
He studies the lock, works it with surgical precision—twist, tap, pressure, shift.
Thirty seconds later, the door clicks open as if it had never had issues at all.
I blink. “Oh. Cool. Just magic. No big deal.”
He stands, brushing dust from his hands, the porch light catching the sharp cut of his jaw. I swear I see the ghost of something smug in the corner of his mouth.
“There you are.”
Show-off.
He says it as if opening a door is no more impressive than breathing, like saving my sanity at midnight is nothing worth mentioning.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, how much space he takes up, how little I seem to occupy.
“I’d offer you tea or coffee as thanks,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the dark house behind me, “but I doubt there’s anything in there besides dust and spiders. Maybe a serial killer if I’m really lucky.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile. Or maybe it’s annoyance. Hard to tell with men like him.
He mutters something under his breath. It’s definitely English, definitely annoyed, possibly a swear, but it’s too low and too accented for me to catch. Something like'bloody'something or'madwoman,'if I had to guess.
He grabs his toolbox, the metal clinking softly in the quiet. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, as if debating whether to say something else. Something polite. Or rude. Or both.
He settles for dipping his head in the barest nod—practically microscopic—and turns away.
No goodbye.
No “welcome to the neighborhood.”
No “don’t worry, your lock isn’t actually cursed.”
Just steady footsteps fading down the steps, moving back toward his house with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and exactly where you belong.
Lucky Pink is neither of those things.
I watch him walk, that broad back disappearing into the night, swallowed by shadows and pine trees and the soft glow of his house lights across the property. The darkness closes behind him like he was never there.
And suddenly it’s just me.
Me and the creaking porch.
Me and the quiet lake.
Me and the house that feels too big, too empty, too still.
