Page 22 of Hard Check

"Maybe I'm changing."

"So it was just... teammate code."

"Something like that."

Pike studied me with those too-perceptive eyes. "You're lying."

"Excuse me?"

"You're lying, or at least not telling the whole truth."

"You've got a real talent for pushing, you know that?" Irritation flared, defensive and sharp.

"And you've got a talent for deflecting."

We stared at each other across the narrow space between the beds. "Fine," I conceded. "I don't know why I reacted like that. It was... instinct."

"That's the most honest thing you've said all night."

He turned back to the TV, allowing the moment to pass without further probing.

What the hell is this feeling?

It wasn't only attraction—I'd felt that before and recognized its contours. This was something more profound, more consuming—an unexplained pull toward Pike.

The movie droned on, neither of us following the plot. Pike removed the ice pack after twenty minutes, rotating his shoulder experimentally.

"Better?" I asked.

"Yeah. Thanks."

He yawned. "I'm going to turn in."

"Go for it. I'll keep the volume low."

Twenty minutes later, I clicked off the TV, plunging the room into darkness, broken only by the digital clock's red glow. Carefully, I eased under my own covers.

The digital clock displayed 3:17 AM when I jerked awake, disoriented in the unfamiliar darkness. For a moment, I couldn't identify what had pulled me from sleep—the room was silent except for the steady hum of the heating system and the occasional distant sound of a door closing down the hallway.

Then I heard it again: a soft, distressed sound from Pike's bed.

I propped myself on one elbow, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He lay on his side, blankets twisted around his legs, one arm flung outward. He contorted his face, brows drawn together in a pained expression.

"No, please... don't..."

I sat up fully, uncertain of what to do. Every instinct urged intervention, but waking someone from a nightmare sometimes left them more disoriented than the dream itself.

I whispered his name. "Pike?"

He didn't respond.

"Stop," he mumbled, head turning restlessly on the pillow. "Can't... I can't..."

The raw distress in his voice broke something in me. I pushed back my covers and crossed the narrow space between our beds, careful movements in the darkness. Up close, I saw a sheen of sweat on his forehead and the rapid flutter of his eyelids.

I tried again. "Pike. Matsson. Wake up."

Nothing.

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