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I wake up tasting copper and chemicals.

My mouth is dry—desert dry, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like sandpaper. There's a bitter residue coating my teeth, something medicinal and wrong that makes my stomach turn. I try to swallow and immediately regret it, the taste intensifying until I'm gagging.

What the hell?

I sit up too fast and the room spins. My head feels stuffed with cotton, thoughts moving through molasses, and there's this weird disconnect between my brain and my body like I'm operating on a three-second delay.

I know this feeling. Recognized it immediately from the handful of times I've had to take heavy-duty anxiety medication during particularly bad episodes.

This is what being drugged feels like.

But that's impossible. I didn't take anything last night. I came home from the bus station, unpacked, showered, texted Landon, and went to sleep. Normal evening. Nothing unusual.

Except.

Except there's something scratching at the edges of my memory. Something dark and terrifying that my brain refuses to fully access. Like trying to remember a nightmare after waking—you know it was horrible, know it scared you, but the details are slippery and vague.

A man. There was a man.

In my room.

And Landon was—

No. No, that's not right. That was a dream. Had to be a dream because the alternative is impossible.

I swing my legs out of bed and immediately notice something wrong.

My room is immaculate.

I'm not a slob, but I'm also not pathologically neat. I usually have books stacked on my desk, clothes draped over my chair, the general lived-in chaos of someone who prioritizes studying over tidying.

But right now, everything is perfectly arranged. My desk is clear except for my laptop, centered precisely. My chair is pushed in at a perfect ninety-degree angle. Even my rug—the cheap IKEA thing I bought freshman year that's usually slightly askew—is perfectly aligned with the edges of my bed.

Someone cleaned my room.

Or I did, in some fugue state I can't remember.

Or—

The thought that tries to surface is too terrible to fully acknowledge. I push it down, force it back into whatever dark corner of my mind it crawled out of, and focus on the immediate problem.

I need to figure out what happened last night.

I grab my phone with shaking hands. 9:47 AM. I slept for over twelve hours, which is unusual for me. I'm an anxious sleeper, typically waking multiple times throughout the night, rarely managing more than six or seven hours total.

Twelve hours straight suggests chemical intervention.

But that's crazy. Who would drug me? How would they even—

The dream-memory surfaces again, sharper this time.

A man in my doorway. Moving toward my bed. Whispering something about watching me.

And then Landon, rising from the shadows like something out of a horror film.

The sound of a neck snapping.

A body on my floor.

I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move, stumbling across my room to the spot where the body would have been. Right there, between my desk and my bed. That's where he fell.

I drop to my knees and run my hands over the carpet, searching for—what? Blood? Evidence? Proof that what I remember actually happened?

The carpet is clean. Not just clean, but pristine. Like it's been recently vacuumed, the fibers all lying in the same direction in perfect parallel lines.

I press my face close to the floor, inhaling deeply, searching for any scent of cleaning chemicals or blood or anything that would confirm my fractured memories.

Nothing. Just the faint smell of laundry detergent from my sheets and the staleness of a closed room.

"It was a dream," I whisper to the empty room, my voice shaking. "Just a nightmare. Stress from the trip. PTSD acting up. Nothing happened."

But the bitter taste in my mouth says otherwise.

And the perfect cleanliness of my room says otherwise.

And the twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep says otherwise.

I grab my phone again with trembling fingers and pull up my contacts. I need to talk to someone. Need to hear a rational voice tell me I'm being paranoid, that trauma does weird things to memory, that of course it was just a nightmare.

I need Landon.

The thought should probably concern me—the fact that he's the only person I want to talk to about this, the only person whose voice will make the panic recede. But I'm too disoriented to examine the implications right now.

I hit his contact and the phone barely rings once before he answers.

"Sunflower?" His voice is warm, concerned, slightly rough like he just woke up. "Are you okay? You sound upset."

"I need—" My voice cracks. "Can you come over? Please? I know it's early and you're probably busy, but I really need—"

"I'm on my way." No hesitation. Not even a question about what's wrong. "Don't move. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The line goes dead and I'm left sitting on my pristine carpet, clutching my phone, trying to convince myself that everything is fine.

That I didn't see what I think I saw.

That my best friend isn't a murderer.

That the man I trust more than anyone in the world didn't snap someone's neck in front of me and then somehow convince me it was a dream.

The fifteen minutes it takes for Landon to arrive feel like hours.

The knock on my door is soft—three gentle taps that I recognize immediately. I stumble over to let him in, and the moment I see his face, something in my chest unclenches.

He looks perfect. Effortlessly casual in dark jeans and a soft blue sweater that makes his eyes look almost crystalline in the morning light. His hair is slightly damp like he just showered, and he smells like expensive soap and safety.

This is Landon. My Landon. The person who brings me tea and walks me home and makes sure I eat when I forget.

Not a killer. Never a killer.

"Hazel." He steps inside and immediately pulls me into his arms, one hand cradling the back of my head. "What's wrong? Talk to me."

And suddenly I can't hold it together anymore. The words come pouring out in a hysterical rush, tripping over each other in their desperation to be heard.

"There was a man in my room last night. He broke in through the door and he was coming toward my bed and I couldn't scream, couldn't move, I was just frozen and terrified and then you—you were here, you came out of the shadows and you—"

I can't say it. Can't force the words past my lips because saying them out loud makes them real.

"I what, sweetheart?" His voice is so gentle, so confused. Like he has no idea what I'm talking about.

"You killed him." The words come out as a whisper. "You snapped his neck. I heard it break. And then there was a body on my floor and you—you told me it wasn't real, that I was dreaming, but Landon, I saw it. I saw you—"

He pulls back just enough to look at my face, and his expression is heartbreaking. Concerned. Confused. Completely genuine.

"Hazel, I wasn't here last night."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?"

"I wasn't on campus." He guides me to sit on my bed, his hands gentle on my shoulders. "I left yesterday evening after droping you to visit my family's estate in Connecticut. I just got back an hour ago."

"No." I shake my head violently. "No, that's not—you were here. I saw you. You were in my room and—"

"I was three hundred miles away." He pulls out his phone, and his hands are perfectly steady as he scrolls through something. "Look. Here."

He shows me his screen and my brain stutters trying to process what I'm seeing.

Photos. Time-stamped, geotagged photos of Landon at what's clearly a massive estate. Him standing in front of an ornate fireplace—timestamp says Monday 7:42 PM. Him having dinner with an older couple who must be his parents. Him in riding gear next to a horse.

"I don't understand." My voice sounds small, childlike. "But you were here. I know you were."

"Sunflower, I think you had a nightmare." He sets his phone aside and takes both my hands in his, his thumbs stroking across my knuckles with devastating gentleness. "A really vivid, really terrifying nightmare triggered by stress and your PTSD."

"It felt real."

"I know. Night terrors often do." His voice is so patient, so understanding. "Especially for someone with your history. The trauma you experienced as a child—it doesn't just go away. It resurfaces in moments of high stress."

"But the man—"

"There was no man, Hazel." He squeezes my hands. "Your door was locked when I got here. I had to knock to get in. If someone had broken in, the lock would be damaged. Is it?"

I don't know. I didn't check. I was too disoriented, too focused on the carpet and the memories that feel real but apparently aren't.

"I—I don't think so?"

"Let's check together." He stands and walks to my door, examining the lock with careful attention. "See? Completely intact. No scratches, no damage. No one forced their way in here."

I join him at the door, staring at the lock like it might spontaneously reveal evidence of tampering. But it looks normal. Functional. Undamaged.

Just like he said.

"But I tasted something," I insist, grasping at anything that might validate what I remember. "When I woke up, there was this bitter chemical taste in my mouth. Like I'd been drugged."

Landon's expression shifts to something deeply concerned. "Have you been taking your anxiety medication?"

"Not recently. Not since before the trip."

"Maybe you should start again." His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "This level of dissociation, these vivid hallucinations—Hazel, this is serious. Your brain is trying to tell you that you're not coping well."

"I'm not hallucinating—"

"Then explain to me how I was in two places at once." His voice is still gentle, but there's a firmness to it now. "How was I simultaneously at my family's estate in Connecticut and in your dorm room on campus? Which is more likely—that I developed teleportation abilities, or that your traumatized brain created a protective fantasy?"

The logic is irrefutable. I can see the timestamps on his photos. Can see the geolocation data. Can see the clear evidence that he was nowhere near campus last night.

Which means everything I remember is false.

Which means I'm losing my mind.

The realization hits me like a freight train and suddenly I can't breathe. My chest is too tight, my lungs won't expand, and there are black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

"Hey, hey, hey." Landon's arms are around me instantly, pulling me against his chest, one hand cradling my head. "Breathe, Sunflower. Just breathe. You're okay. I've got you."

"I'm broken," I sob against his sweater, my fingers clutching at the fabric like it's the only thing keeping me anchored. "My brain is broken and I can't trust anything I remember and I don't know what's real anymore."

"You're not broken." His voice is fierce now, passionate. "You're healing from things that should never have happened to you. That takes time. It takes support. And it takes trusting the people who care about you to help you distinguish reality from the tricks your trauma plays."

"I'm so scared." The admission comes out small and pathetic. "What if it gets worse? What if I can't tell the difference anymore?"

"That's not going to happen." He pulls back just enough to look at my face, his hands framing my jaw. "Do you know why?"

I shake my head mutely.

"Because I'm not going anywhere." His teal eyes are intense, burning with something that looks almost like fever. "When you can't trust your own mind, you trust mine. When you can't tell what's real, you ask me and I'll tell you. I will be your anchor, Hazel. Your touchstone. The only thing you need to hold onto."

The words should probably sound controlling. Possessive. Unhealthy.

Instead, they sound like salvation.

"Promise?" My voice is barely a whisper.

"I promise." He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead—a gesture that's becoming familiar, comforting. "You are not alone in this. You will never be alone in this. I will always tell you the truth, even when your mind is lying to you."

I nod against his chest, letting his heartbeat ground me. Strong. Steady. Real.

He's real. The photos are real. The geolocation data is real.

The nightmare was just a nightmare.

I have to believe that. Have to trust him. Because the alternative—that he's lying, that he somehow faked all that evidence, that he actually did kill someone in my room—is too terrible to contemplate.

And why would he lie? What possible reason would he have to gaslight me about something like this?

None. It makes no sense.

My trauma brain is just doing what trauma brains do—creating threats where none exist, manufacturing fear to keep me vigilant, protecting me from dangers that aren't actually there.

"I'm sorry," I murmur against his sweater. "I'm sorry for freaking out and dragging you over here and being so—"

"Don't." His voice is sharp, then immediately softens. "Don't apologize for needing help. Don't apologize for having a brain that's trying to protect you the only way it knows how. And definitely don't apologize for calling me. I meant what I said, Hazel. I will always come when you need me."

I believe him. God help me, I believe every word.

We stay like that for a long time—him holding me, me clinging to him like a lifeline, both of us breathing in sync. The morning sun streams through my window, painting everything in warm golden light that makes the nightmare feel even more distant and unreal.

Eventually, my breathing calms. The panic recedes. And I'm left feeling hollowed out and exhausted, but safe.

"Thank you," I whisper. "For being patient with me. For not making me feel crazy."

"You're not crazy." He strokes my hair with careful, measured movements. "You're hurt. There's a difference."

"Will you stay for a while? I don't—I don't want to be alone right now."

"I'll stay as long as you need." He guides me back to my bed, tucking me in like I'm something precious. "Rest. I'll be right here."

I curl up under my covers and watch him settle into my desk chair, pulling out his phone to presumably catch up on whatever he missed while visiting his family.

And slowly, gradually, the terror fades.

It was just a nightmare. A horrible, vivid nightmare triggered by stress and trauma.

Nothing happened.

No one broke in.

No one died.

Landon wasn't even here.

I repeat it like a mantra until I almost believe it.

He stays for hours.

I drift in and out of sleep, and every time I wake up, he's still there. Sometimes reading on his phone. Sometimes watching me with an expression I can't quite identify. Sometimes just sitting in comfortable silence.

It's comforting. Grounding. Proof that he's real, that this moment is real, that I'm not still trapped in some nightmare I can't wake up from.

Around three PM, my stomach growls loudly enough to make him smile.

"When's the last time you ate?"

I have to think about it. "Breakfast yesterday? Maybe?"

His expression shifts to something stern. "That's not acceptable. You're coming with me to get food."

"I'm not really hungry—"

"Hazel." His voice is firm, brooking no argument. "Your blood sugar is probably in the basement, which is contributing to the dissociation and anxiety. You need to eat. Now."

I know better than to argue when he uses that tone. Besides, he's probably right. I do feel shaky and light-headed in a way that suggests my body needs fuel.

We end up at the small café on the edge of campus—the one that makes overpriced sandwiches and serves actually decent coffee. Landon orders for both of us while I find a corner table away from the mid-afternoon crowd.

I'm picking at a turkey sandwich I don't want when he asks, "Have you thought about talking to someone? A professional, I mean."

The question makes my stomach clench. "Like a therapist?"

"Like someone who specializes in PTSD and trauma recovery." He's watching me carefully, gauging my reaction. "What you experienced this morning—that level of dissociation—it's concerning, Hazel. I can be here for you, but I'm not qualified to help you heal from the things that hurt you."

"I can't afford therapy." The words come out flat, bitter. "My scholarship barely covers tuition and housing. I definitely don't have money for psychiatric care."

"The university has resources. Free counseling services for students."

"Which have a three-month waitlist and are staffed by graduate students who are barely older than I am." I've looked into it. Multiple times. "I appreciate the concern, but it's not realistic right now."

He's quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that seems almost agitated. Then: "What if I paid for it?"

"Absolutely not."

"Hazel—"

"No." I set my sandwich down, my appetite completely gone. "You already do too much. The watch, the books, the constant gifts. I'm not letting you pay for my therapy too. I'm not a charity case."

"You're not a charity case." His voice is intense now, almost angry. "You're my best friend, and I have resources you don't. Why is it wrong for me to want to use those resources to help you?"

"Because it makes me feel like—" I struggle to find the words. "Like I owe you. Like our friendship isn't equal. Like I'm just some broken thing you're trying to fix."

The hurt that flashes across his face looks genuine. "Is that really what you think?"

"I don't know what to think anymore." I'm suddenly exhausted again, the brief burst of energy from arguing already fading. "My brain is lying to me. My memories aren't trustworthy. I can't even tell what's real. So forgive me if I'm a little sensitive about maintaining some semblance of independence."

He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb pressing into my pulse point with familiar pressure. "You don't owe me anything. Every gift I give you, every moment I spend with you—I do it because I want to. Because you make my life better just by existing in it. Not because I expect anything in return."

The words settle over me like a warm blanket, soothing the sharp edges of my anxiety.

"Okay," I whisper. "I believe you."

"Good." He squeezes my hand once before releasing it. "But I want you to think about the therapy suggestion. Not right now. But when you're ready. The offer stands."

I nod, even though I have no intention of taking him up on it. The idea of sitting in some sterile office, recounting my childhood horrors to a stranger who gets paid to pretend they care—it makes my skin crawl.

I'd rather deal with the nightmares.

We finish eating in comfortable silence, and by the time we're walking back to my dorm, the sun is starting to set. The campus is beautiful in the golden hour light—all long shadows and warm tones that make everything look softer than it actually is.

Landon walks me all the way to my door, like he always does.

"Will you be okay tonight?" he asks, his hand resting on the doorframe beside my head. "Or do you want me to stay?"

The offer is tempting. Having him nearby, knowing he's there if the nightmares come back—it would make sleeping so much easier.

But I also need to prove to myself that I can function independently. That I'm not completely falling apart.

"I'll be okay," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "But thank you. For everything. For coming when I called, for staying, for not making me feel insane."

"I told you." He leans down and presses another kiss to my forehead. "I'll always come when you need me. No matter what."

Then he's gone, disappearing down the hallway with that fluid grace he has, and I'm left standing outside my door feeling unmoored and uncertain.

I should go inside. Should try to establish some normalcy. Maybe study, or read, or do literally anything that doesn't involve obsessing over false memories.

I unlock my door and step inside—

And freeze.

Because something is wrong.

Not obviously wrong. Not dramatically wrong. Just... wrong.

My desk chair is angled differently than I remember. My books are stacked in a slightly different order. Small things. Insignificant things.

Things that shouldn't matter but do.

I tell myself I'm being paranoid. That I'm seeing patterns that aren't there. That my trauma brain is working overtime to manufacture threats.

But I can't shake the feeling that someone was in here while I was gone.

I do a circuit of the room, checking everything. Closet—undisturbed. Dresser—nothing missing. Bed—exactly as I left it. Everything seems normal.

I'm being ridiculous.

I grab my phone to text Landon that I'm settling in fine, and that's when I see it.

The door.

More specifically, the strike plate around my deadbolt.

I move closer, squinting in the dim light, and my heart stops.

There are scratches on the metal. Deep, jagged scratches that definitely weren't there before. Fresh scratches, the metal bright and raw where it's been gouged.

Scratches that look exactly like what lockpicks would leave.

My hand starts shaking.

No. No, no, no.

This isn't possible. Landon checked the lock this morning and said it was fine. Said there was no damage. Said no one broke in.

But these scratches are real. I can feel them under my fingers—rough edges of disturbed metal that catch at my skin.

Someone picked this lock.

Recently.

Which means—

The nightmare rushes back with brutal clarity. The man in my doorway. The sound of a neck snapping. Landon rising from the shadows.

It wasn't a dream.

The realization hits me like ice water.

It wasn't a dream and Landon lied to me. Showed me fake evidence, manipulated me into doubting my own memories, convinced me I was hallucinating.

Why?

Why would he do that unless—

Unless he actually killed someone in my room.

Unless he's been lying to me about everything.

Unless the person I trust most in the world is exactly the kind of monster I should be running from.

I back away from the door on legs that don't quite work, my phone clutched in my trembling hand. I should call someone. Campus security. The police. Aurora. Iris. Skye—  Anyone who might believe me.

But who would believe me? and what if I was wrong?

I have no body. No evidence except some scratches on a lock that could have been there for weeks. No proof except my own unreliable memories and a growing certainty that the man I love—

No. Not love. Trust. The man I trust.

The man who brought me tea and walked me home and made sure I was safe.

The man who might be a murderer.

I sink onto my bed, still staring at the scratched lock, and feel something fundamental shift inside me.

Either I'm losing my mind completely, or my best friend is a psychopath who just gaslit me into doubting my own sanity.

I don't know which possibility terrifies me more.

But those scratches don't lie.

Someone picked my lock.

Someone broke into my room.

And I think I know exactly who.

The question is—what am I going to do about it?

_____

I have the next update scheduled in about 15 minutes after this chapter drops.

The reason I'm updating early is simple—there are readers here who are dying to know what happens next and are genuinely so invested in this story... and who am I to say no?

Honestly, I didn't expect this level of obsession over these two  but I'm so grateful for it. Thank fuck I wrote this chapter a week ago when I had time—and since today's a holiday for me, you might get even more updates .

With love,
Eva .