The sun is just rising when the door downstairs scrapes open and claps shut.

I jolt beneath my comforter, stay tense, and then relax, just a touch, when I hear obvious footsteps and keys dangling.

Is the haunted house thing over?

Sitting up a little straighter, correcting my glasses, tucking my stray, staticky hair behind my ears, I'm wide eyed and probably pretty pathetic looking when Jael walks in.

His face is pale and grim. He looks more exhausted than I am, like he's been sick and hasn't slept well in weeks.

It takes him a few blinks before he spots me on the couch and acknowledges how settled in I am, watching his TV, thankfully and surprisingly loaded with everything I would ever need to stay sane on a lonely, eerie night.

I've been watching British period dramas. There's nothing scary about that, except that, for every lost virgin, their whole lives are ruined. They lose their security, reputation, and all respect from their family and friends, if these girls ever had any of that to begin with. The guy either dies, doesn't stick around, or they're forced into an unhappy marriage.

Maybe I should be watching something else. The Omen or The Exorcist would probably be more comforting and reassuring.

Jael squints his eyes, cocks his head. His gaze skims down me, in a blanket bundle, to the glass of water on the coffee table, down to the last few sips, to the box of tissues—a few of them used—and the open box of Captain Crunch.

"You're up early," he comments.

I shrug. It takes effort to avoid bawling my eyes out. "Never went to bed." The lazy coolness I was going for doesn't make it through the voice quiver.

"Everything all right?" He seems about to cross the threshold, through the archway and into the living room. Not even a full step closer, his nose flares, his mouth quirks with distaste, and he takes a step back instead, like I smell bad or something.

I showered, brushed my teeth, and even flossed quickly. I'm almost positive that I put on plenty of deodorant, too. But, I admit, that was hours ago. And all this time, I've been shivering through the draft. The windows aren't great. The wind is still so intense.

I've probably broken into a cold sweat, one I didn't even notice or consider until now. Is it really that bad?

Jael holds up a finger to say, hold that thought. Then he darts into the bathroom.

While he's gone a few minutes longer than I expect, I have a chance to drain the tears that were welling up without him watching.

I grab a few more tissues. I'm just barely cleaned up when he returns, pausing, once again, with indecision in the archway.

He leans into it with one shoulder. His black hair is gleaming with moisture. It looks like he just ran his hand through it. Though I saw him amble toward his room with just a medium-sized white towel around his waist, he's now wearing sweatpants and a well-loved black T-shirt. It's too faded to read what it once said. It's probably some band I would have never heard of anyway.

His eyes widen at the sight of me—still here, still pathetic—and then dip to the empty couch cushion beside me. "Is it something I said?" he jokes, but through the forced smirk, he looks nervous or unsure.

He gets points for a willingness to deal with a distressed girl after a sleepless night. A girl he's not dating. Someone his girlfriend doesn't even seem to like. And said girlfriend might still be lurking about, somewhere on the premises.

Does anyone in this place ever sleep at night?

Judging by how groggy Jael looked yesterday after I finished a full day of classes, or how chic and alert Ivy was at the ungodly hour I had a run-in with her, then probably not...

I'm right in the middle of the couch—my best attempt to stay awake—and my comforter is consuming space on all three couch cushions. I gather it up and scoot over a few inches, so he can have a full seat beside me, if he so chooses.

He takes this as a cue to "sit down for this." There's only about a foot between us, but he leans toward the arm, giving me and "us" a wide berth, to a point I'm confused and self-conscious. It looks like he's holding his breath.

"It's me, isn't it?" I pull out the neck of my sweatshirt and take a whiff. I actually smell fine . . . I guess. Good or bad is a matter of opinion, I suppose. Either way, it's nothing a guy could pick up on that far away. 

He chuckles and starts rubbing his closed eyes, like he's too tired for this conversation and has a headache. "It's definitely not you." In the greenish light of the television, some color comes to his face, like admitting that was a mistake, an embarrassing one.

"It's not you, either." I place a hand on his shoulder, lean closer, and breathe him in. His essence—it's something to savor. "It's like . . . pine and fresh snow," I admit. "A crackling fire. A hint of cinnamon and nutmeg. Clean linens, still warm from the drier."

My eyes open. I didn't realize I had closed them. But it makes sense. For a second there, I was somewhere else. Far away and isolated, but in the best way possible.  

"Really?" He drops his hands from his eyes to stare at me, like he's never heard something so absurd.

"Why the tone of surprise?" I sit back up and return my attention to the TV. "Whatever you use—soap or whatever—it must be expensive."

"Hard to believe, is all. I don't..." He shakes his head, never finishing his next thought. "It's been that kind of night."

"Something that would cling to you even after a shower?"

"Uh, yeah," he insists, and then waves to curtail the lift of my eyebrows. "It's nothing. Forget I said anything."

"What do you do, anyway? While you're out in the middle of the night?"

"Security," he says simply, coldly, seemingly in no mood to get into the crap he's had to deal with. And I have the good sense not to push him too hard. "At a private residence."

I nod. "That makes sense."

It does explain so many things. The odd schedule, the cameras at the entrances here, the computers and gadgets, the desk full of wiring. The protectiveness he exudes, the stress and anxiety, and the "stench" he thinks he can't shake... 

Jael grabs the Captain Crush, takes a handful, and while he's chewing, he tunes in to a wordy line of dialogue, the accent almost too thick to wade through unless you know what they're talking about. "How are you still awake through this?"

At this point, I am struggling to keep up, and I like the stuff and have plenty of practice. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," he grunts, like he already knows or suspects.

"Full disclosure?" I throw my gaze sideways.

"Yes, please!" he says when our eyes meet.

"Promise you won't get mad at me? Some of it is none of my business. I hope you won't think I'm stupid or crazy, either."

I pull my legs onto the couch and shift toward him, offering him a piece of the blanket like a preemptive apology.

He surprisingly accepts it, draping it over his lap. "I'm sure I've heard worse on all counts."

"Well. . ." I begin and then pause for a sniffle and shudder, wondering if I should and can go on. But then it all comes pouring out, consequences be damned!

I tell him about the noises, the power outage, the "imaginary" bite on my heel. The terror I felt. The blood I thought was everywhere. How Ivy caught me snooping through his stuff while I was looking for tape.

Maybe I could have avoided mentioning Rollin, how creepy he was and how inappropriate his presence seemed to be when Jael wasn't home. I don't owe Ivy any favors, though, not if I'm telling Jael the whole truth, minus, of course, the part where I was staring at the only personal item I found in there—the picture of him with his mother, if I'm guessing correctly.   

After many tears and a sleepless night, I'm not exactly coherent, but it appears the gist has been gotten and "crazy" is not his first reaction; it's anger. Directed at what or whom? I don't know. He doesn't say. And he gets up too fast for me to ask or figure it out for myself with those telling eyes of his.

I don't get the impression that I should be on my knees, begging for forgiveness, but what the heck do I know? I am crazy. I can see no way around it.

There's just enough daylight for me to see him charge through the kitchen and leave through the back door. He returns no more than a minute later—no sign of blood, sweat, or strain, the rage not gone but contained, perhaps for my sake. Ivy and Rollin must not be down there anymore. And he has a flashlight in hand that he takes to my bedroom. He spends more time there than he did downstairs.

When he comes back to the living room, he sets the flashlight down on the coffee table and plops back in his seat. "I couldn't find anything."

I shrug and reoffer the blanket to him. "I'm not surprised. Thanks for trying."

He takes it and I scoot closer to him. He doesn't freeze or try to avoid me this time.

Because of the scent he actually has, I find myself drifting closer, leaning into him. "For my errors in judgment, I'm sorry."

He shakes his head and sighs, like the entire world is on his shoulders and he's on the verge of giving up. It's all too much to carry.

And then his arm is around me. I guess I'm forgiven.

I take my glasses off. My eyes close before I even get a chance to set them down on the table.

Beyond my control, I drift to that cabin in the woods. For now, there's no place I'd rather be. And no one I'd rather be with.