“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
The scream ripped out of me before I could stop it. Not a tough-guy shout. Not a football player’s roar. No—this was a banshee shriek, cracking so high I was pretty sure dogs in the next county heard it.
Emma didn’t flinch. Didn’t even twitch. Just tilted her head, her brown hair somehow not moving with it.
“He’s awake,” she sang in a lilting, nursery-rhyme voice. “My Matty’s awake. He screamed because he’s so happy to see me.”
“What the actual—fuck—Emma?!” I scrambled backward, sheets tangling around my legs, until my skull smacked into the headboard. Pain flared, but I didn’t care. My heart was jackhammering, my skin crawling, and my dick—once alive in the dream—was now curled up somewhere in witness protection.
She rocked slightly on her toes, the way kids did when humming to themselves. “You were sweating. Moaning. Gasping. I wanted to see.”
“Okay. No.” I clutched the sheet tighter over my lap, like that would save me. “That was a dream, alright? You can’t—you can’t just stand there watching me sleep like some possessed doll!”
Her grin twitched, stretching wider. “I love watching you sleep.” She sighed. “You breathe differently when you dream,slow at first, then it catches, like you can sense your death coming.”
“Nope,” I said quickly, voice shaking. “We’re not doing this. We arenotdoing this.”
Emma stepped closer, her bare feet whispering against the floor. She leaned down until her face hovered inches above mine. Her breath smelled like iced milk. I wasn’t sure how I knew that, but if iced milk had a smell, it was like that. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, and still—still—she didn’t blink.
I whimpered. Actually whimpered.
“Blink,” I croaked. “For the love of God, just blink once.”
Her smile sharpened. “But then I can’t see you, Matthew.”
I slapped both hands over my eyes. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. I’m still asleep. This is a night terror.”
Her voice slid under my hands, singsong and sweet. “Not a dream. I’m real. Real. Real.”
I peeked through my fingers.
She was still there.
Of course she was.
But she was drifting away from the bed. Not leaving—oh no, that would’ve been too easy. She startedwandering around my room.
My room.
Touching my things.
Her fingers traced the edge of my charging phone. “It lights up every few minutes,” she murmured. “Little ghosts trying to reach you before I do.”
My jaw dropped. “That’s not a normal observation, Emma!”
She drifted to the desk where my playbook lay open, notes scrawled in my handwriting from team meetings. She bent over and trailed a finger down one of the diagrams.
“X’s and O’s,” she sang. “Like kisses. Like bones.”
I swallowed hard. “That’s acover two, not—” I cut myself off, dragging my hands down my face. “Why am I explaining football to you right now?!”
She ignored me, her eyes glittering as she picked up my shoulder pads from where it leaned against the wall. She cradled it in her arms like it was a baby.
“Armor,” she whispered, rocking it gently. “My Matty’s armor. Heavy and strong. But not enough.”
I dragged my knees up to my chest, still clutching the sheet. “Stop rocking my equipment like it’s Rosemary’s baby!”
Her head snapped toward me, and my stomach dropped.
