Felt something warm hit my sock.
Myonlysock.
“Holy—FUCKING—hell—!” I whisper-shouted, hopping back, tripping over the trash bin, and slamming my shoulder into the doorframe.
The damn seat wasdown.
Then I knocked over something—some loud-ass hairdryer not where it should be—and froze.
A creak.
Soft. From the living room.
Someone was out there.
I held my breath.
Listened.
Every cell in my body screameddanger.
I didn’t even think—just bolted to the cabinet, unlocked the safe, and pulled out the only gun big enough to stop a bearandmy imagination.
Raised my voice.
“Who the hell’s there?”
Silence.
But not the empty kind.
The thick kind.
Like the air itself was hiding something.
“Rufus? That you?”
Then—barely a whisper:
“Cash… khm… it’s just me.”
I froze. Lowered the gun.
“Willa? Jesus Christ…”
I blinked at her silhouette.
Hair down. Hoodie. Bare legs.
And I was standing there—shirtless, reeking of whiskey, holding a damnrifle.
She stepped closer, trying not to laugh.
“I think… I think you peed on your sock.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Not humiliating at all.”
I dropped the gun with a sigh, ran a hand through my hair. Adrenaline had cleared my head faster than any coffee ever could.
