Lucas Bergvall

The hallway of the secluded cabin was pitch-black and freezing cold, save for the weak, warm glow spilling from beneath the crack of the bedroom door. The echoes of your nightmare still hammered violently against your ribs, skin clammy and pulse racing as you stood in the quiet corridor.

Panic had driven you out of bed, barefoot and trembling in an oversized hoodie, blindly searching for your brother Archie's room. You hadn't thought twice before raising a shaky fist and banging against the wood, a muffled, desperate whisper slipping past your lips before the latch unclicked.

The door swung open.

It wasn't Archie.

Lucas stood in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the bedroom behind him. He was completely shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants, his blonde hair rumpled and messy from sleep. His sharp blue eyes squinched against the light of the hallway, a quick, familiar scowl tugging at his mouth as if preparing to drop another sharp, arrogant remark.

Then his eyes properly adjusted to your face.

The smug comment died on his tongue. Lucas's entire posture shifted—his broad shoulders squaring, his jaw tightening as he registered the silent hyperventilation racking your chest, your knuckles white as you clutched the fleece sleeves of your hoodie, and the raw, terrified look in your eyes.

For all the petty rivalries, low blows, and sharp insults exchanged between you two, the atmosphere in the narrow doorway instantly broke.

"What happened?" Lucas asked, his voice unexpectedly low, raspy from sleep, and completely stripped of his usual smugness as he took a firm, deliberate step forward into the doorway.