So, here’s a word to the wise. Adrenaline doesn’t last forever. Neither does fear, unfortunately. Whatever’s left is just exhaustion, panic, and, like, the occasional desperate sob.

I limped my way up the road, ribs complaining with every inhale, my ankle not exactly thrilled about surviving whatever the hell just happened to me. While my brain, traitorous, deeply unhelpful, and running on fumes and nicotine, was starting to catch up to reality. Which was: my motherfucking car had just been turned into a literal dumpster fire after being punted like a football across a parking lot by that thing back there.

I still couldn’t wrap my head around what it could have been. The tentacles, the slime coating my dashboard. Every time I tried to come up with a logical explanation, my thoughts slipped sideways, as if the image of that thing was too much to handle. Like my brain was telling me, “Hey, asshole, we’re not equipped to deal with that yet.”

Dazed from blood loss and the general realization that my night had taken a hard left into insanity, I saw the neon vacancy sign of a crappy Motel 6 up ahead. Squat, doors that didn’t sit right in their frame. Half the rooms were dark, the other half lit with a dim, jaundice-like glow. 

I needed sleep, needed to eat something greasy. Needed to jerk off to mediocre porn. That was the answer to all my problems.

That would fix me. 

I took one last drag of my cigarette, flicked it into the gravel, and started limping toward the office. 

The only other people around were a bald guy in the parking lot arguing with a girl in pink stiletto heels and a pink fur coat, her arms crossed. I felt like I was swimming past them, indisinct voices rising and falling like they were underwater.

The office door squealed when I pushed it open and stumbled inside. Warm air hit me, thick and stale, along with the scent of garlic and old pizza crusts. The room was small, cluttered with brochures and Sports Illustrated magazines strewn across the slightly lopsided front desk.

I thunked my head against the counter and reached out, slamming my hand down on the dented bell until the whole desk vibrated. 

DING! DING! DING-A-DING!

"Alright, alright! Hold your fucking horses!" From somewhere in the back, something shifted, and a chair scraped, dragging along the greasy linoleum floor. Then footsteps followed, and a guy finally appeared in the doorway behind the counter, pushing the curtain aside with one hand. He looked like he’d been assembled out of leftover pizza crusts and old rat nests, greasy hair, a Metallica hoodie half-zipped, eyes that hadn’t fully committed to being open yet. He wore a crooked nametag that said, “Derek.”

“Dude…” Derek drawled. “You look like shit.”

I leaned more of my weight onto the counter and dug into my back pocket, pulling out my wallet. “Just give me a fucking room,” I told him, slapping it down on the counter with a dull thud. 

Derek didn’t move right away. He just stood there, staring at me. “You just passing by?” he asked after a second, squinting like it might help. “I’ve never seen you around here. That’s saying a lot. I know everyone around here.”

I didn’t bother answering him and glanced towards the smudged window, peeking out into the parking lot. I could see my reflection staring back at me, waves of blonde hair, ripped jeans, sneakers that used to be white but stained with some blood and a bunch of dirt. I’d been nineteen when I left Idaho a few weeks ago; I’d turned twenty sometime between then. There hadn’t been cake or candles. No moment of realization. Just a slow, quiet shift into something older and way more tired.

Derek slid a ticket stub across the counter for me to sign. “Don’t flush any weird shit down the toilet, man,” he said. “No knives. No guns. Dildos need to go in the trash.”

I caught a flash of movement outside and looked past my reflection, out into the parking lot.

You know, there are moments in life when you see someone so goddamn gorgeous, you can’t imagine that they’re real?

Well, a guy was standing outside.

I lifted my sunglasses, slowly stared a little too long without meaning to, my hand still hovering near the counter where I’d just been told not to flush knives or guns or whatever else had apparently become common hotel folklore. My reflection overlaid his silhouette, so it looked like he was standing inside me for a second. 

That face. God. There was something infuriatingly easy about it. Sharp jaw, softened at the edges in a way that made him look gentle, but only just. His mouth had that naturally pouty shape to it, like he was perpetually on the verge of saying something mildly dramatic or mildly amused, or both at the same time. It wasn’t a performance, though. It was just… how his face rested when he wasn’t thinking about it.

His eyes were the real problem.

Sleepy, heavy-lidded, like he’d stayed up too late doing something he probably shouldn’t have, or nothing at all, just existing too long under neon light and cigarette haze and bad decisions that weren’t fully his fault. They didn’t look tired so much as permanently half-curious, like the world had never quite managed to fully wake him up, and he didn’t seem to mind.

And his hair. Dark, thick, a little too long in the front, falling over one eyebrow. Not styled in any purposeful way, just naturally messy, slightly rebellious softness.

“That’s Noah Riley,” Derek’s voice cut in, and my heart nearly exploded. 

“Yeah,” Derek went on, flicking the signed ticket toward a little stack of paperwork. He leaned his elbows on the counter, glancing past me through the glass like the parking lot was part of his job description. His voice dropped, casual, seemingly uninterested. “Don’t stare too long,” he added, “Not unless you’re looking for trouble.”

That finally made me glance over at him.

Derek flipped open a greasy old pizza box and slid out a petrified slice. “There’s a gang that runs around here at all hours of the night. Noah hooked up with their leader about a year ago. Checked them into a room myself. They had a thing going on for a while; everyone in town knew it. Couldn’t even look at the guy the wrong way without the gang hearing about it.”

I felt the wound in my side pulse, and David’s smug face hit me like a punch to the gut.

“Then something happened,” Derek continued, “They broke it off. Pretty boy wanted to go to college, or something. Don’t know exactly what went wrong. Didn’t mean nothing, anyway. Last guy Noah tried to date, David put him in the hospital with a concussion.”

I grabbed my wallet and the key off the counter. “David come around here often?”

“Not much anymore,” Derek shrugged. “Noah works across the street at the Blue Scorcher. He walks home about this time, David pays me twenty to keep an eye on him, make sure he makes it home in one piece. But I recommend not talking to him—hey!”

I headed outside, the bells above the door jingling as the door slammed shut behind me.