Lucas Bergvall.

You hated Lucas Bergvall. You always had. Too cocky. Too good-looking. Too damn full of himself. The golden boy of every room he walked into, too used to the attention, too used to winning. Including your brother, Archie Gray, who treated him like a second coming of football royalty. Lucas was always around. At your house and Archie's. In your kitchen. On your couch. And he hated you too. He never said it outright, but you felt it in every squint, every know-it-all comment.

"Careful, I wouldn't want the princess to break a nail." "Why don't you stay home next time? Not that you contribute much."

It was always like this. Sharp words, sharper stares. And yet, something always buzzed beneath the surface. Something you didn't speak of. Something you refused to name. But that night? On that trip? Everything shattered. The cabin was silent. Too silent. Everyone else was asleep after a long day: some trip Archie had organized for the group, a last-minute plan involving bunk beds, card games, and cheap pizza. You were in one of the upstairs bedrooms, alone, and the nightmare hit you like a punch to the chest. You woke up trembling. Heart racing, skin cold. The darkness felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. You didn't think. You just moved. You threw on a sweatshirt and walked barefoot down the hallway, your pulse still stuttering, your mind spinning. You didn't knock softly, you pounded, as if fear still haunted you. And you were sure it was Archie's room. You even whispered his name. But it wasn't Archie who opened the door. It was Lucas. Shirtless, sleepy, his hair disheveled, his eyes squinting against the light in the hallway. You froze. Everything inside you screamed, turn around, run, don't say a word. But he saw it instantly: how your chest rose too quickly, how you clenched your fists in your sleeves.