You didn’t hear the creature. But Tyler did.

One second you were whispering, flashlight flicking over the dense underbrush — and the next, he was dragging you backward, one arm tight around your shoulders, the other clamped firmly over your mouth.

His breath was sharp against your ear. His eyes scanned the trees, wide and alert, like an animal hearing a predator.

Crunch.

There it was again.

The sound of something moving — not walking, no — stalking. Wet leaves, breaking twigs, breath that wasn’t yours or his, exhaling deep in the dark.

Tyler’s body tensed behind you. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was desperate. Terrified, even.

And protective.

You could feel his heartbeat thudding against your back, out of rhythm with your own.

Too close. Whatever it is—it’s too close.

His lips brushed your ear, voice low and trembling: “Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.”

You barely nodded.

The sound came again, circling.

Tyler’s jaw clenched. He pulled you closer, shielding your body with his own, every muscle coiled like a spring.

You felt it now. The silence wasn't empty — it was hunting.

And Tyler, whether he meant to or not, was putting himself in its path. For you.