The first corridor was narrow, the walls lined with fake spiderwebs and plastic skeletons that rattled when we brushed past them. A recording of creaking floorboards played on a loop, and somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed. Miles walked ahead of me, his shoulders hunched, and I stayed close.

  Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.

  Close enough that when he stumbled slightly on the uneven floor, my hand shot out instinctively to steady him.

  Then the first jump scare hit.

  A guy in a zombie mask leaped out from behind a curtain, arms outstretched, groaning like he was auditioning for a B-movie. Miles yelped—a sharp, involuntary sound that shot straight to my gut—and his hand shot out, grabbing my arm.

  I froze.

  Felt the warmth of his grip. The way his fingers dug into my sleeve, desperate and tight. The way his body pressed back against mine, seeking shelter.

  He realized what he'd done a second later and jerked his hand back, clearing his throat.

  “I wasn't scared,” he said quickly. “Just startled.”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I believe you.”

  I didn't. And from the way his jaw tightened, from the way his shoulders went rigid, he knew it.

  We kept moving. The corridor twisted and turned, the fog getting thicker with each step. Another scare—this time a skeleton dropping from the ceiling on a wire, its plastic bones clattering. Miles flinched but didn't grab me again.

  I could see the tension radiating through his body. The way he kept glancing around, eyes wide, like he expected something to jump out at any second. The way his breathing had gone shallow.

  And then the corridor narrowed.

  We had to walk single file, our shoulders brushing the walls, and I found myself pressed close to Miles's back. Close enough to smell the faint scent of coffee and something else—something warm and clean that was just him. Close enough to feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his body tensed with every sound, every flicker of light.

  Heat coiled low in my stomach.

  “You okay?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.

  “Fine.”

  But he wasn't. I could tell from the way his hands were clenched at his sides, from the way his shoulders were practically up by his ears. He was genuinely spooked, and for some reason, that made something in my chest tighten.

  Made me want to wrap myself around him until he felt safe again.

  “Hey.” I reached out. Let my hand find his shoulder. Felt him still beneath my touch. “It's just fake. None of it's real.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why are you freaking out?”

  “I'm not freaking out.”

  “Miles.”

  He turned slightly—just enough that I could see his profile in the dim, flickering light. His jaw was tight. His eyes wide. And there was something vulnerable in his expression that I'd never seen before, something raw and unguarded.

  “I don't like the dark,” he admitted quietly. “Never have.”

  The confession hung between us, raw and honest, and I felt my chest constrict. He looked embarrassed—like he'd just admitted some terrible secret—and I wanted to pull him close. Wanted to tell him it was okay, that everyone was scared of something.

  That I'd protect him from whatever darkness he was running from.

  Instead, I just squeezed his shoulder. Let my thumb brush against the side of his neck. “Then stay close to me.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine in the darkness. Then he nodded. Just once.

  And we kept moving.

  The next room was worse.

  It was a mock graveyard, complete with fog machines and plastic tombstones jutting out of the floor at odd angles. Strobe lights flickered overhead, casting everything in harsh, disorienting flashes. A recording of thunder crashed—loud and sudden—and Miles stumbled, his hand shooting out to grab my arm again.

  This time, he didn't let go.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, but his grip tightened.

  “Don't be.”

  We walked through the graveyard, his hand wrapped around my arm, and I found myself hyper-aware of every point of contact. The warmth of his palm through my sleeve. The way his fingers trembled slightly, betraying his fear. The way he pressed closer when another scare hit—a ghoul popping up from behind a tombstone, latex mask distorted and grotesque.

  My pulse hammered. Not from fear. From something else entirely.

  “You're doing great,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

  “Shut up.”

  “I'm serious. You haven't screamed yet.”

  “The night's not over.”

  “True.”

  Another corridor. Even narrower than the last. We had to turn sideways to fit, and suddenly we were chest to chest, pressed together in the tight space. I could feel his heart pounding—fast and erratic—and my own pulse kicked up in response.

  His breath was warm against my collarbone. His body was solid against mine. Every inch of him pressed against every inch of me.

  “Derek.” His voice was rough, breathless.

  “Yeah?”

  “If you make fun of me for this, I swear to God⁠—”

  “I'm not making fun of you.”

  He looked up at me. In the flickering light, I could see the flush on his cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly as he tried to catch his breath. We were so close. Close enough that I could count the freckles across his nose. Close enough to see the exact moment his pupils dilated. Close enough to kiss him.

  God, I wanted to kiss him.

  Wanted to press him back against the wall and swallow that little gasp he'd made. Wanted to feel what that sharp mouth of his tasted like. Wanted to find out if he kissed the way he argued—all fire and teeth and barely controlled chaos.

  “Come on,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Let's keep moving.”

  We squeezed through the corridor. Every step brought us closer together. Every breath synchronized. And by the time we reached the next room, I was half-hard and trying desperately to think about anything other than the way Miles's body felt pressed against mine.

  The final chamber was decorated like a crypt. Fake coffins lined the walls, cobwebs hung from the ceiling in thick, dusty curtains, and the only light came from flickering candles that cast dancing shadows across the stone walls. A recording of howling wind played on a loop, and somewhere in the distance, chains rattled.

  Miles stopped in the center of the room, looking around, and I stopped beside him. We were alone—the rest of the haunted house behind us—and for a moment, it was just us and the flickering candlelight and the weight of everything we hadn't said.

  Then the final scare hit.

  Thunder crashed—loud and sudden—and all the lights went out at once. Complete darkness. Absolute. Suffocating.

  Miles yelped, stumbling forward, and I caught him. My arms wrapped around his waist as he collided with my chest. He buried his face in my shoulder, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and I held him.

  Held him tight.

  Felt the warmth of him. The way he fit perfectly against me, like he'd been made for this. For my arms. For me.

  “You're okay,” I murmured into his hair. “I've got you.”

  He didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just stayed there, pressed against me, his hands fisted in my shirt. His whole body trembled. His breath came hot and uneven against my neck.

  And for a long, breathless moment, neither of us spoke.

  I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. Could feel the way he was trying to steady his breathing, trying to pull himself together. Could feel the exact moment he realized how tightly he was holding me.

  Then the lights flickered back on—dim and orange—and Miles pulled back just enough to look up at me.

  His eyes were wide. His lips parted. And there was something in his expression that made my breath catch. Something that looked like want and fear and uncertainty all tangled together.

  We stood there, frozen. His hands still gripping my shirt. My arms still wrapped around his waist. The air between us felt heavy, charged, like a storm waiting to break.

  I could see the conflict in his eyes. The way he was fighting against whatever this was. The way he wanted to run and stay in equal measure.

  And god, I wanted to close the distance. Wanted to kiss him until that scared look in his eyes turned into something else entirely. Wanted to press him back against one of those fake coffins and show him exactly what I'd been thinking about for weeks.

  “I didn't realize this haunted house came with cuddling,” I said. Trying to lighten the moment. Trying to give him an out.

  He glared up at me, but there was no heat in it. “Don't flatter yourself.”

  “Too late.”

  “You're insufferable.”

  “You're the one still holding onto me.”

  He glanced down. Realized his hands were still fisted in my shirt. Heat flooded his cheeks—dark and beautiful—but he didn't let go.

  And I didn't step back.

  “Derek.” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “We should⁠—”

  A final jump scare cut him off. A guy in a werewolf mask burst through a hidden door, howling, and Miles jerked back so fast he nearly fell. I caught him again, steadying him, and he cursed—his face flushed with embarrassment and adrenaline and something darker.

  “Fuck this place,” he muttered.

  I couldn't help it. I laughed.

  “Come on.” I grabbed his hand. Laced our fingers together without thinking. Pulled him toward the exit. “Let's get out of here before you have a heart attack.”

  He didn't pull his hand away.

  And I didn't let go.

  We stumbled out into the cool night air, both of us breathing hard, and the sudden quiet was jarring after the chaos of the haunted house. The festival grounds were still buzzing with activity—families wandering between booths, kids shrieking with laughter, the smell of kettle corn and cider heavy in the air. But it all felt distant. Muted. Like we were in our own little bubble.

  Miles's hand was still in mine.

  Warm. Solid. Real.

  I looked down at our joined hands, then up at him, and found him staring at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and for a moment I thought he might say something. Acknowledge this thing between us. Stop pretending it didn't exist.

  But then he pulled his hand away. Shoved it into his pocket. And the moment shattered.

  “That was ridiculous,” he said, his voice rough.

  “You screamed at least three times.”

  “I did not.”

  “You absolutely did.”

  “I was startled. There's a difference.”

  “Sure there is.”

  He glared at me, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips—small and reluctant and fucking beautiful. My chest tightened. God, I was in trouble. Deep, messy, inconvenient trouble.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For . . . you know.”

  “Keeping you safe from the big bad skeletons?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Anytime.”

  We stood there for a moment—the noise of the festival swirling around us—and I wanted to say something. Wanted to ask him what the hell was happening between us. Wanted to pull him close and finish what we'd almost started in that final chamber.

  Wanted to kiss him until he stopped running.

  But before I could, Lila appeared, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  “So?” she asked, looking between us. “How was it?”

  “Fine,” Miles muttered.

  “He screamed,” I said at the same time.

  “I did not!”

  “Three times.”

  “Once! And it was because someone jumped out at me!”

  Lila laughed, looping her arm through Miles's. “Sounds like you lost the bet. Hope you like glitter.”

  Miles groaned, and I couldn't stop grinning. But as Lila dragged him away, he glanced back at me, and for just a second, our eyes met.

  And I saw it again.

  That same want. That same fear. That same impossible pull.

  I watched him disappear into the crowd, my hand still tingling from where he'd held it, and I knew with absolute certainty that I was falling for him.

  And there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it.

  The festival was winding down by the time I made my way back to my booth.

  The crowds had thinned—families heading home, vendors starting to pack up. The string lights overhead cast everything in a warm, golden glow, and the air smelled like cider and woodsmoke and the faint, earthy scent of autumn.

  I should have been tired. Should have been ready to call it a night.

  But all I could think about was the way Miles had felt pressed against me in that haunted house. The way his hands had gripped my shirt. The way he'd looked at me in the flickering candlelight—like he was on the verge of saying something that would change everything.

  I was so lost in thought that I didn't notice Jenna until she was standing right in front of me, arms crossed, grinning.

  “You've got it bad,” she said.

  I blinked. Refocused. “What?”

  “Miles. You've got it bad for him.”

  “I don't⁠—”

  “Derek.” She gave me a look. “I've known you for three years. I've seen you flirt with half the town. But I've never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him.”

  I didn't know what to say to that.

  Mostly because she was right.

  “It's complicated,” I said finally.

  “It always is.” She leaned against the booth, her expression softening. “But for what it's worth? I think he feels the same way.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. I saw the way he looked at you when you were walking out of that haunted house. Like you'd just saved his life or something.”

  I laughed—the sound rough, disbelieving. “I didn't save his life. I just held his hand.”

  “Same thing to someone who's scared.”

  I thought about that. About the way Miles had admitted he didn't like the dark. About the way he'd trusted me enough to let me see that vulnerability. About the way he'd stayed close, even when he was terrified.

  About the way his body had felt against mine—warm and solid and right.

  “What do I do?” I asked quietly.

  “Tell him how you feel.”

  “And if he doesn't feel the same way?”

  “Then at least you'll know.” She squeezed my shoulder. “But Derek? I really don't think that's going to be a problem.”

  I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her.

  But every time I thought about telling Miles how I felt, I remembered the way he pulled away. The way he shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended nothing had happened. The way he kept running from this thing between us.

  Maybe he wasn't ready.

  Or maybe I wasn't.

  I finished packing up the booth, my mind still racing, and by the time I locked up and headed home, the festival grounds were nearly empty. Just a few stragglers. The cleanup crew. The soft glow of jack-o'-lanterns still flickering in the darkness.

  I walked slowly, savoring the cool night air, trying to clear my head.

  But all I could think about was Miles.

  The way he'd felt in my arms. The way his voice had sounded when he said my name. The way I was falling for him—fast and hard and completely out of control.

  And I had no idea what to do about it.

  closet steam

  . . .

  Miles

  Boxes of fake cobwebs and cider jugs weren't supposed to be this heavy.

  Lila had given me a look when she'd asked me to haul them to the supply closet, the one that said you owe me for every time I've saved your ass, and I'd caved. Because that's what I did. Caved to my sister's ridiculous demands and ended up sweating through my shirt while wrestling with decorations that smelled like cinnamon and regret.

  Festival season was going to kill me.

  My arms burned as I backed into the closet, trying to navigate around stacks of hay bales and folding tables. It was cramped, barely big enough to turn around in, and packed floor to ceiling with supplies. Orange streamers hung from hooks on the wall, boxes of paper pumpkins teetered on shelves, and somewhere in the chaos, a broom had fallen across the doorway like a trap waiting to spring.

  Perfect.

  I dumped the boxes onto a shelf, kicking the broom out of the way, and turned to leave. That's when the door slammed shut behind me.

  “What the hell?” I grabbed the handle, twisting hard. It didn't budge. I rattled it again, putting my shoulder into it, but nothing. Stuck. Completely, impossibly stuck.

  And then the light flickered out.

  My stomach dropped.

  No. No, no, no.

  Darkness swallowed the room whole, thick and suffocating, and my breath caught in my throat. My hands found the door again, fumbling for the handle, pulling harder this time. Nothing. I could feel the panic rising, sharp and hot in my chest, my pulse kicking up until it was all I could hear.

  Not again. Not like this.

  “Of course it's you.”

  I spun around, or tried to, bumping into a shelf in the process. A voice. Someone else was in here. My heart hammered as I squinted into the darkness, trying to make out shapes, shadows, anything.

  “Who—”

  “Relax, Miles. It's just me.”

  Derek.

  Of course it was Derek. Because the universe had a sick sense of humor and apparently thought trapping me in a dark closet with my rival was peak comedy.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't care. The panic was still there, clawing at my ribs, and I needed something to focus on that wasn't the crushing weight of the dark.

  “Same thing as you, probably. Got sent to grab supplies. Came in through the back door.” I heard him move, footsteps shuffling closer. “And now we're both stuck.”

  My hands shaking where they gripped the door handle. I forced myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Like my dad had taught me when I was a kid.

 

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