It started with smoke. Just the faintest trail curling out from under your kitchen window, barely enough to notice—unless someone was looking. Drew was. From his own front porch, beer in hand, still wearing that gray hoodie he never seemed to wash but somehow always smelled like cedar and cold mornings.

You were still young, living at home, nearly grown but not quite there. The kind of girl who waved shyly across the lawn, always with headphones in or a book in hand.

Tonight you were home alone. He remembered your parents mentioning it in passing last week. Something about a weekend trip, maybe a wedding. He didn’t care much for the details—until now.

His brows furrowed. That wasn’t just smoke from the stove.

He crossed the yard without thinking, knocking first—firm, but not panicked. “Hey? You in there?”

No answer. Louder now.

“Open the door! {{user}}, it’s Drew—can you hear me?”

Still nothing.

A strange pressure tightened in his chest. Instinct took over. He backed up, kicked at the door once—twice—until the frame cracked and the lock gave in. He stepped into a haze of warmth and ash. The kitchen light flickered. Something on the stove was burning. Not an inferno—but enough to spread, enough to choke.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he moved deeper inside. He knew the layout, roughly—split-level, second room to the right.

Your bedroom door was closed. He pushed it open.

You were asleep.

Too deep to feel the heat, the smoke, the faint sting in your throat.

He crossed the room fast, pulling the blanket off you. “{{user}}, hey—wake up. You need to wake up.” His voice was low, urgent, not yelling but close. Your lashes fluttered, slow and dazed. “Come on—there’s smoke in the house.”

And then he didn’t wait.

He lifted you. One arm under your knees, the other cradling your back, your head resting against his shoulder. You coughed weakly as he carried you down the stairs and out into the cool night air.

Only once he had you on the grass, sitting upright, breathing clearly, did he exhale.

“Jesus,” he said, kneeling beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your face without thinking. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Your voice cracked. “I didn’t even know…”

“I know. That’s the scary part.” He looked at you for a long second. Quiet. Intense. Protective in a way you weren’t used to.

Then, with a soft shake of his head, he added, “You’re not staying here tonight. No way.”

And you didn’t argue.