I snapped the car door shut, a smile tugging at my lips.

My grandmother knew my weakness for sugar all too well; it was a running joke between us.

As I handed her the coffee cup, I gave her a look that was half conspiracy, half irony. She laughed, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

"I love candy," I said, popping another Twizzler into my mouth.

"You won't be so glad when your teeth start falling out," she replied, pressing the accelerator. "We'll see about that in a month."

I didn't answer. I didn't want to upset her. Not now. She went on, as if she had guessed what I was thinking.

"I know this isn't easy for you. You weren't thrilled about moving, but I'm convinced you'll end up loving this place. All I want is for you to try."

I took a slow breath. Yes, I was going to try. I was going to pretend I believed her, to give her that chance. But that didn't mean it would be easy. Changing your life, changing your habits—it was like jumping into an abyss.

"I'll try," I said finally. "But promise me you won't push me."

As the car slowed, I leaned forward to look out the window. The landscape had dissolved into a stretch of dense greenery. Trees as far as the eye could see. Nothing else.

"Are we moving into a forest?" I said flatly.

My grandmother laughed softly and placed a reassuring hand on my knee. "No, it's just the road," she said. "Wait for it."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, buildings began to appear, scattered along a narrow street.

I thought of the guys we'd seen at the gas station on the way here. Four of them, staring at our car like they owned the road. The memory of their intense stares lingered, leaving a vague unease in its wake.

"So, tell me," my grandmother said, keeping her eyes on the road. "How do you really feel, deep down, about all of this?"

I bit my lip. I knew she was hoping for a sincere answer.

The truth was, I hated the idea of starting over from scratch, but I also wanted to show her I was making an effort. "I think this is what's best for us," I said finally. "So I'll try to get used to it."

The neighborhood unfolding before us did have a quiet charm. I tried to focus on that. Texas had its advantages, that much was undeniable. The people seemed open, and I wanted to believe we could fit in. But the thought of starting over from nothing was still a crushing weight.

"Great, we live in the middle of nowhere," I muttered. Not having a car would make it even worse. How was I supposed to get around? Were there even any buses that came through this remote part of town?

The car stopped in front of a large, old house. I ran a hand over my face and finally looked up at it. In spite of myself, a smile stretched my lips. The facade had charm—a little worn, sure—but one window opened onto a small balcony. Just like my room in Florida.

My eyes were glued to it.

From the outside, the house looked great, even if it seemed like it had been abandoned for years. With a little care and work, it could be beautiful again. Maybe living here wouldn't be so terrible after all.

"It needs some repairs," my grandmother admitted, "but I already fell in love with it. I couldn't resist."

Inside, my excitement dropped a notch. The worn carpets, the dated furniture, the musty smell—the whole place felt like it was stuck in a bygone era.

"Workers will come in a few days," she explained quickly, reading my grimace. "And look at the garden. With a little attention, it'll be gorgeous. We can decorate it however we want, make this place a real home."

I let her talk. She had every right to be happy, and who was I to take that away from her? My mood could wait. What mattered was seeing her smile.

"Quiet neighborhood, huh?" I added after a pause. "Hey, how far is the nearest beach?"

She laughed. "Already feeling nostalgic?"

"Always," I answered with a shrug. "But I can wait. Do you want me to start unloading the car?"

She nodded. My job was to get the essentials out; the rest would follow. As for where she was getting the money for all of this, I didn't dare ask.

"Yes, and I'm going to check if the heat works," she said.

The heat? That didn't sound good.

I rolled my eyes and headed back outside. It couldn't get any worse, right? Just as I was leaning into the car, a voice behind me made me jump.

"Need a hand?"

I straightened up so fast my head spun. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Isla?"

She strolled over, the picture of nonchalance. "So you're the one moving in here? This is your house?"

A knot formed in my stomach. Her tone was light, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Closing the car door with a kick, I stared at her in silence. This girl had a strange energy I couldn't quite place.

"Is there a problem?" I demanded abruptly.

"Not at all," she answered with a smile. "The house has been empty for a long time, that's all. I live a little farther down, but I mostly spend my time at my brother's."

"Why didn't anyone buy it before?"

She shrugged. "No idea. Want me to help you?"

Without waiting for my answer, she grabbed a box from the trunk and headed up the driveway.

I wasn't sure I wanted to be her friend. Something about her put me on guard.

"Maya, can you bring me—" My grandmother stepped out, stopping short. "Oh, who's this?" She took the box from Isla's hands.

"Isla. She lives down the street," I explained. "She says the house has been empty for a long time. Are you sure this was a good idea?" I didn't want her to waste her money on a lost cause.

"Maya," my grandmother said firmly.

That was enough to make me shut up. Once she made a decision, there was no point in arguing.

"Go finish unloading," she said, her tone softening. "I'm making us hot chocolate."

"She's sweet," Isla whispered with a smile before picking up another box.

Yes, my grandmother was sweet, but that was deceptive. She could be immovable when she needed to be.

"Thanks, I've got it," I said, taking the box from her. I couldn't figure this girl out. Was she genuinely nice, or was she after something?

"It doesn't bother me," she said with a shrug. "Anyway, I'd rather be here. My brother has friends over and I don't feel like hanging out with them."

"How old is your brother?" I asked, intrigued.

"Twenty-four, but he acts like he's fifty," she answered with a smile. "And sometimes he's insufferable."

"Insufferable how?"

"You'll see when you meet him. What about you, do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No, only child," I replied.

I walked up the driveway, a box in my arms. But my foot caught on a loose stone and I lost my balance. The box tumbled from my grasp, and I fell hard, my knees scraping against the gravel.

"Shit!" I groaned, rolling up my jeans to dig a sharp little stone out of my skin.

"Are you okay?" Isla asked, leaning toward me.

Voices pulled me from my thoughts, a sudden reminder that I wasn't alone.

My hands were scraped raw and smeared with drying blood, my knee throbbing from the fall, but it wasn't the end of the world. The embarrassment burned hot in my cheeks, but night had fallen. At least no one had been around to watch me trip. I wiped my bloody fingers on my jeans, a useless gesture against the shame.

"Need a hand, short stuff?" a raspy voice murmured through the cold air.

Short stuff? The words hit like a flick to the ear, and I winced.

"Blake," Isla's voice cut in sharply.

When I looked up, a gasp escaped me. Who was this man? Where had he come from? And why on earth wasn't he wearing a shirt? Was this some absurd joke, or was my exhausted brain finally playing tricks on me?

I couldn't tear my eyes away, mesmerized. He met my stare for a long moment before his gaze slid away, and a wave of embarrassment washed over me.

Four guys stood in front of the house, all of them shirtless in the freezing night, looking like they'd stepped out of another world.

The air bit at my exposed skin, and their collective stillness gave the scene a strange, predatory intensity. For a second, I felt so disoriented it was as if I'd hit my head getting out of the car. Reality wavered.

I pushed myself to my feet, my hands still sticky, and began gathering the belongings that had spilled across the driveway. My clothes and possessions were scattered in a messy heap. "Blake, please, just go," Isla urged.

He remained planted where he was, his eyes fixed on me. The discomfort simmering inside me swelled, then sharpened into alarm when I saw what he was holding.

My blanket.

My mother's.

It was old, frayed, and clumsily repaired by hand—the kind of treasure you cling to because it holds the last traces of someone you loved.

I treated it like a fragile relic. No one was ever allowed to treat it like a rag. And yet, this boy held it at arm's length, dangling it like a worthless scrap of cloth.

"Blake," Isla hissed.

I couldn't even find the strength to ask for it back. The words were lodged in my throat.

Just then, my grandmother emerged from the house, her posture rigid, her voice radiating authority.

"Maya, what's going on here?" she asked, positioning herself beside me. Her gaze landed instantly on the blanket. "Young man, I believe what you're holding doesn't belong to you. Give it back."

The steel in her voice was a balm to my frayed nerves. It was like an anchor; I felt my racing heart begin to settle.

But I was still too dazed to move with any confidence. I reached out, snatched the blanket from his grasp, and clutched it to my chest, burying my face in the worn fabric. I didn't care if they thought I was hugging a scrap of cloth. It was the only piece of my mother I had left.

"Come inside," my grandmother said, not waiting for an answer. "The rest can wait until tomorrow." She then turned to Isla. "Isla, you're welcome to join us. Come on in."

The invitation was an order wrapped in politeness. Isla didn't need to be told twice.

"Sit down, girls. I'm going to make hot chocolate," my grandmother announced, her tone almost cheerful.

I nodded, my head still swimming with blurry images. Isla mentioned she'd left her phone in the car, an excuse to either ensure privacy or project a bit of independence.

I opened the glove box, grabbed my own phone, and double-checked that the car was locked. Then, with a knot of unease tightening in my stomach, I walked back toward the house with the last of the boxes under my arm.

As I turned, a hand shot out and clamped around my wrist, the force anything but innocent. He yanked me back toward him, and I froze, every muscle locking in place.

"Short stuff," he growled, his voice a low, brutal thing right beside my ear.

His fingers dug into my wrist, and the pressure hurt. I tried to draw a breath, but the air felt thin, stolen. I didn't dare struggle. My body went rigid, every fiber screaming for me to run, but a strange confusion crept through the fear. I was terrified, yes, but there was also a bizarre, unwelcome thrill at being noticed, at being held.

"Please let me go," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He didn't move. Instead, he buried his face in the curve of my neck and took a long, deep inhale, as if searching for a specific scent.

"Fuck, baby, you're pure ocean," he breathed, his voice thick, almost drunk.

A violent tremor shot through me. Who sniffed someone like that? Who pressed their face against the neck of a girl they just met in a driveway?

I felt cold and sick, yet some stupid, ashamed part of me felt a flicker of guilty curiosity at the warmth of his breath, the solid press of his head against my skin. It was utterly repellent and, somehow, attractive.

Then, as quickly as he'd appeared, he let go. He simply vanished back into the night without another word, without a sound.

The sudden emptiness he left behind cranked my anxiety to a new high. He could walk away, but he was still out there. He had gotten close, breathed me in, and retreated, leaving me feeling invaded.

I stumbled inside, took the mug my grandmother handed me, and sank onto the couch. The hot chocolate burned my fingers, but I took a sip anyway. The warmth was more comforting than the taste.

My thoughts kept circling back to him: the rough gentleness of his grip, his face in my neck, and that impossible scent of salt and sea he claimed to have found on me.

"Maya, sweetheart, are you there?" my grandmother called, her soft laugh chasing away the ghosts in the room. "Isla was just telling me she's going to the same school you're enrolled in."

I had almost forgotten about school. The information pulled me back to a more ordinary reality—classes to attend, people to meet, a life to rebuild. I tried to cling to it.

"Great, school," I breathed, rolling my eyes. "Only six more months. After that, we'll see."

Isla stood up to leave, a friendly smile on her face as she held out her hand. "Thanks for having me. I should get going. By the way, here's my number, if you need anything."

She took my hand and gave it a light squeeze. I managed a small smile in return. Despite everything, she was the only person I knew here, and that alone was reassuring.

When the door clicked shut behind her, I looked at my grandmother, waiting for the verdict.

"She seems nice," she said with a kind smile. "Maybe your first friend here. Her brother, on the other hand, is a real piece of work."

I burst out laughing despite myself. Hearing my grandmother talk like that always surprised me; she wasn't one for crude language. But her comment was wrapped in a warm, protective tone that did me a world of good.

"But what a gorgeous asshole," she added with an amused glint in her eye.

I had to admit, there was something magnetic about him. Still, I shook my head.

"I think he's already noticed you," my grandmother said, winking as she took my empty mug. "He couldn't take his eyes off you."

"Grandma," I groaned, a blush creeping up my neck. She was only twenty when she had my mom; people often mistook her for my mother, and she certainly acted like it sometimes.

"I'm just saying," she said with a grin. "Try to get some sleep now." She gestured to the couch. "It's not perfect, but you'll have a proper bed tomorrow."

"I love you, Grandma," I murmured.

"I love you too, sweetheart," she replied, and her words fell over my trembling shoulders like the warmest blanket.