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.