You hated Lucas Bergvall. Always had.

Too smug. Too pretty. Too damn full of himself. The golden boy of every room he walked into, too used to attention, too used to winning. Including over your brother—Archie Gray, who treated him like some second coming of football royalty.

Lucas was always around. At your and Archie’s house. In your kitchen. On your couch. And he hated you too.

He never said it outright—but you felt it in every narrowed glance, every smartass comment. “Careful, wouldn’t want the princess to break a nail.” “Why don’t you stay home next time? It’s not like you contribute much.”

It was always like that. Sharp words, sharper looks. And yet—something always buzzed under the surface. Something you didn’t talk about. Something you refused to name.

But that night? On that trip? Everything cracked.

The cabin was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone else asleep after a long day—some trip Archie organized for the group, a last-minute plan with bunk beds and card games and cheap pizza. You were in one of the upstairs rooms, alone, and the nightmare hit like a punch to the chest.

You woke up shaking. Heart racing, skin cold. The dark felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

You didn’t think. You just moved. Pulled on a sweatshirt and padded down the hallway barefoot, pulse still stuttering, mind spinning. You didn’t knock gently—you banged, like the fear was still chasing you.

And you were sure it was Archie’s room. You’d even whispered his name.

But it wasn’t Archie who opened the door.

It was Lucas.

Shirtless, sleepy, hair messy and eyes squinting against the hall light.

You froze. Everything inside you screaming turn around, run, say nothing.

But he saw it instantly—the way your chest was rising too fast, the way your fists were clenched in your sleeves, the way your face crumpled when you tried to speak.

His jaw shifted.

“What happened?”