50. Claire: Pacing

50. Claire: Pacing
CLAIRE

The house feels still in the best way.

Dinner with Nik was the most fun I’ve had in a while. The kind of fun that’s filled with teasing and clumsy chopping and smoke detectors that maybe need new batteries. It was good. Better than good. It was normal. And having that with Nik, in his house, like we weren’t two haunted people caught in an escalating mess, felt like… something rare. Something I hadn’t dared to hope for.

Now, I’m in my temporary bedroom—the one with the huge window overlooking the trees. I’m flipping through one of the pages of a book I borrowed from the library letting the quiet settle around me. I try to quiet my mind enough to read what’s on the page, but I’m struggling to stay focused on the words in front of me. My mind keeps wandering back to all the questions Vivian brought to light in the library this afternoon. The mysterious mark on the back of my neck and how it got there. Or why I wasn’t able to Shift again tonight and if I’m still the same defective Shifter I always assumed I was. 

And when I’m not thinking about that, my mind drifts back to the night I spent with Nik. 

I’d intended to bring up what we started talking about this morning—James. Contacting him. Getting some kind of closure or answers. But after Vivian brought up how exhausted Nik looked earlier, I couldn’t not notice it. He looked drained after dinner. Not just tired. Strained. Like something inside him was too tightly wound. So I let the conversation go. For now.

I’ll bring it up tomorrow.

Maybe. Probably.

Finally I give up on reading altogether. I close the book and set it off to the side, clicking off the lamp. I burrow under the covers, and stare out the window for a long time. The sky is deep and velvet-black tonight, moonlight turning the woods outside silver. It’s beautiful in that kind of wild, untouched way. I should feel peaceful here. Safe. And I do.

But on top of all of that, I feel…

Not restless, exactly. Just aware. Of him. Of the way it felt to be near him all evening. Of the current humming under my skin every time our arms brushed or he looked at me too long. Like some part of me knows—on a level I can’t un-know—that we’re circling something inevitable.

I’m just starting to drift off when I hear it.

A noise.

Faint, muffled movement. My heart jumps and I sit up, listening hard. It sounds like....footsteps. Just outside my door. Back and forth. Again and again.

Pacing.

I slip out of bed and slowly cross the room.

Pulling open the door, I blink back my momentary shock at the sight of Nik standing in the hallway outside my room. Or—not standing, exactly. Pacing like he’s ready to run headfirst through the wall. His shoulders are rigid, fists clenched at his sides. And his eyes—

They’re not fully human anymore.

“Nik?” I whisper, keeping my voice soft. “Is everything alright?”

He stops short and blinks at me like he just remembered where he is. “Shit,” he breathes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” I quickly assure him, stepping out into the hallway. “But… are you okay?”

He hesitates. I’ve noticed that he always seems to hesitate when he’s struggling with something. Like he doesn’t know how to hand anyone his pain, even when it’s choking him.

He's always taking care of other people--his pack, his friends, me. But is there anyone who takes care of him?

I take a deep steadying breath then gently steer him toward the doorway. “Come sit down.”

He looks like he wants to protest—but he doesn’t. Just tugs a hand through the dark messy strands of his hair and follows me into the room. He sits on the edge of my bed. Rigid. Coiled. As if just holding still is an impossible struggle for him at the moment.

I sit beside him, legs crossed, watching him in the dark.

“You look exhausted,” I say softly.

He huffs something like a laugh. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

The worry gnawing on my insides intensifies.

“When’s the last time you slept?” I ask.

Another pause. A longer one.

He stares out the window like it’ll answer for him. “That hour or two on your couch,” he finally admits. “After the cabin.”

I blink. “That was… days ago.”

He shrugs, eyes still fixed on the dark. 

No wonder he looks so exhausted. It’s a wonder that he’s even functioning right now.  

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” I ask.

Silence stretches. His jaw tightens. I see the exact second his resolve frays.

“Because,” he says, voice rough, low, honest, “since the cabin… I can’t. Not really. Not without you nearby.”