Page 18 of My Neighbor Literally Bites

"It's a cut. A clean one." Her fingers are soft as she presses the water against it, but the feel of her skin is worse, warmer, her pulse near enough that I have to avoid my gaze. "It should be bleeding more than this. Or less. It's a little confusing. Why aren't you—" She stops. "You haven't made a sound."

"I've had worse."

"That's not what I asked." She wraps the bandage, firm, neat, her hands sure. I count every shoulder-length hair on her head.

"You always do this," she says, quieter.

"Bleed?"

"Deflect." She smooths the bandage. "Make a joke when you're avoiding the real answer."

"I don't joke."

"No," she says, and her mouth curves. "You make very serious sentences that accidentally become jokes."

Her fingers remain around my wrist, light enough that I could move it, firm enough that she would feel the choice.

"You should be afraid," I say.

"Why?" Her eyes lift to mine.

The question makes me anxious. I gaze at her hand instead of her face.

"Hannah."

"I know. You don't want questions."

"I don't want you hurt."

"Not the same thing."

"No."

Her thumb brushes the edge of the bandage. Dawn is approaching, but all I feel is her warmth, her pulse, her stubborn care.

"Lily will be up soon," she says.

"Yes."

"Then go before she turns this into breakfast entertainment."

My desire is too strong, so I do. I have no strength left to fight it.

15

HANNAH

Igrip the screwdriver tighter, the metal cool, and drive another screw into the cabinet hinge. The morning light slants through the windows, catching dust motes that drift like tiny accusations. Lily left for school an hour ago, her backpack slung over one shoulder and a sarcastic quip about my restless energy still hanging in the air. I ought to be grateful for the quiet. Instead, every creak of the old floorboards pulls my thoughts back to Alaric.

He just left again yesterday. His answers as sparse as ever. The way he looked at me—guarded, almost pained—lingers like a memory I return to. I put the screwdriver down and move over the sink, testing the latch. It holds firm, the wood reinforced with fresh brackets I don't remember installing. My fingers trace the neat metal edges. When did that happen?

I check the back door next. The deadbolt turns smoothly, too smoothly, the mechanism replaced with something heavier than the one I bought. A folded note sits on the mudroom shelf beneath a hammer I thought I'd misplaced last week. I unfold it, the handwriting crisp and unfamiliar.

Mr. Blackwood covered the upgrade and labor. Said to bill him directly if anything else needs attention. —J. Harlan, Lock & Key Services

My stomach creases, and I crumple the paper, then smooth it out again. This isn't the first coincidence. The loose porch step that fixed itself overnight. The window that wouldn't stay shut until suddenly it did. Tools that reappeared exactly where I needed them after I swore I'd left them scattered. I'd chalked it up to small-town helpfulness or my own distraction. Now the pattern stares back at me, sharp and deliberate.

Alaric has been moving through my life like a shadow I never asked for. Protecting me. Deciding what I needed before I could even see any threat. Gregory used to do the same thing—frame control as care, wrap it in concern until I couldn't breathe. The memory burns, hot and familiar. I won't do this again. I won't allow another man to curate my safety while keeping me oblivious.