I consider myself abnormally fearless, not a lot has ever rattled me, but a nightmare just kicked my ass awake. I’m caked in sweat, drawstring pants and black shirt suctioned to my body, and I open a cupboard on the dead-quiet tour bus.

Ripped Fuel is what I need, and the jug lies sideways on the shelf. A sticky note is attached. In guess-whose handwriting: do not take more than 3 a day.

I’d roll my eyes at Thatcher’s unnecessary instructions, but that takes energy on him that I don’t even want to use.

I twist off the cap while simultaneously plugging a cord in my phone. I fit earbuds in my ears, and then shake two pills in my palm. The fat-burning supplement contains ephedrine and caffeine, an easy trick to stay awake.

Because I’m not going back to sleep after that mind-fuck.

It’s 2:42 a.m. and the bus is parked at a Kentucky campground for approximately three-point-two more hours. We all agreed on a pit stop to let the drivers recharge for the next leg of the tour.

I’m a driver, and I can see the irony as I leave my bunk behind and unlock the bus doors. Clearly not sleeping.

My boots hit the dirt, a fire pit charred and extinguished. A full moon illuminates the mossy campground, only one other RV in sight. Trees rustle in a gust of wind, and the winter breeze cools me off.

I scuff a stone and shuffle through my phone’s music. Nine Inch Nails. Play. Bass blasts in my eardrums, and the first song doesn’t end before the bus doors creak open.

I overturn a large rock with my boot. Watching Maximoff step onto the earth like he’s mentally and physically prepared for any hell.

Lips lifting, I pop an earbud out. “Miss me already?”

He glares at the night sky. “God, spare me.”

I almost laugh. “Dramatic and infatuated with me.” My smile grows but then slowly fades as seriousness hardens his forest-greens.

He stretches his arms over his chest. “You woke up in a cold sweat.”

See, I tried not to jostle him, but we slept in the same bunk. A confined single-bed. Our legs were intertwined. My jaw was on his chest. I was more surprised that he didn’t bolt upright instantly when I left.

“Bad dream,” I tell him and then study his shoulder as he rotates his arms. He’s not flinching or wincing. It’s healed better than I initially thought. Good.

I’m hoping he never needs a doctor again. Because he no longer has my father. That fucking asshole…

“What was the dream?” Maximoff crosses the campground, opening and closing his switchblade absentmindedly.

I comb a hand through my hair. “You were drowning.” And I couldn’t save you. I breathe hot breath through my nose and rest my boot on a log bench.

Maximoff clicks his switchblade closed. Standing stoically, he reminds me of an unshakable marble statue again. A man who refuses to let anyone or anything topple him. At least not without putting up a hell of a fight.

And I’m not surprised when he tells me, “That would never fucking happen.”

I toss my head from side-to-side, considering that. Something never happening is a spearfish becoming a horse. Of course people can drown. Shit, even Olympic swimmers can drown. But I can’t wade inside these fears or let them leech onto Maximoff.

It was a nightmare.

Not reality.

Our gazes catch in a forceful grasp. Not letting go. “You’re right,” I tell him. “You’re not drowning. Because you have me.”

He pauses in thought. “I’d survive either way.” He gestures from my chest to his chest. “Between the two of us, I’m the trained swimmer.”

I smile. “I meant metaphorically drowning.”

He glowers. 2% amused, 98% irritated. I’m a 100% satisfied, and we unconsciously near. Our boots scuff the dirt and moss.

“I’m not losing at anything,” he says, still trying to assure me.

I won’t say this out loud, but fuck, I agree—he’s capable of surviving 8 out of 10 scenarios. But I’m here for those 2 that he needs someone else. And he will.

He does.

He knows it too, but like me, those words rarely meet the air. I’d rather tease him for as long as I can, and he’d rather combat me.

“You’re not losing at anything,” I repeat his words and then say, “you’d lose to me in an MMA match in less than a minute.”

“Or I’d win,” he refutes.

I laugh hard.

“I’m fucking serious.” He pockets his switchblade, standing about an arm’s length away. “Let’s see who’s better.”

I’ll have him on his back in less than two seconds. “Someone teach you? Because I know I didn’t.”

“I did some research.”

My smile is hurting my face. “You mean you Googled MMA moves?”

He glares. “Are we doing this or not?”

I suck in a breath. “Wow, you must really want me to be on top of you.”

He licks his lips to hide a smile. “Maybe I’ll end up on top of you.” He gestures me forward.

Wind whistles. No paparazzi here. The only cameramen tailing us lost our tracks around Chicago. The rest stayed in Philly for money-shots of his parents.

This informal match is just for us, but my fist isn’t hitting his face. We quickly agree to no jabs, hooks, uppercuts or kicks. Leaving mostly wrestling and grappling.

We circle one another, and then he approaches like a bullet. He tries a clinch takedown, pushing my chest while sweeping my right foot out from under me. I maneuver out of the inside trip, and then step forward, drop to a knee. And swiftly shoot my hands behind his legs and pull.

Balance gone, his back thuds to the dirt. “Fuck.” His breath ejects.

I smile. “Double-leg takedown,” I tell him the basic move.

“Let me try again.” He picks himself up, and I stand. The second time I try to shoot for a takedown, he crouches out of range and drives his weight into my upper-body.

Damn. His muscles carve as he taps into his strength. I grit down and dig out of the hold. Slipping behind him, then we circle one another again.

“I learned that from YouTube,” he tells me.

I smile. “Okay, smartass.” I remember how his siblings said he’s better than average at everything he tries. Maximoff trying to keep up with me and actually succeeding—it’s extremely fucking attractive.

But I’m not going easy on him. Next time, I trip him from the inside, and his body plummets. Back to dirt.

We grapple on the ground. Tangled up, our legs and arms hooking. Muscles blazing, sweat building. Flipping over in mud and moss, skin and clothes dirtied. I smile each time he attempts to hit a more advanced move. He even tries a rear-naked chokehold, but fails.

He’s gassed, exerting twice the energy as me. After a guard pass from me, I gain the advantage and end up on top of him. My knees bear on either side of his waist, basically mounted on Maximoff. I rest a palm by his face.

And the world seems to still.

His chest collapses, breathing heavily beneath me, and I pant a little bit too. In the calm, the quiet, our eyes never detach. Dirt streaks his cheekbones and jaw, and I’m sure mine are similar.

I look deep into this guy and remember why I’m awake, why he’s here. I could’ve told him to go back to bed, but I didn’t. We spend an insane amount of time together, but whenever I’m around Maximoff, I only want him to draw closer, and I think, another minute, another hour.

And then those minutes turn to days and hours to weeks, and before I even blink, I’m consumed. Hook, line, and sinker. He has me.

Maximoff clutches the back of my neck. If his eyes could speak, they’d be whispering, kiss me, fucking kiss me.

Before he tries to bring my head down, I cup his jaw and lean forward. Our breaths are ragged, but not from wrestling.

My mouth slowly skims his, teasingly close, and his chest expands in a wanting breath. Fuck. I hold his face with two hands, and we both close the short distance.

Our lips meet with hot power, and everything bursts inside of me. His skilled tongue parts my mouth, and I bear more weight on him as he drives the kiss deeper. Like he’s reaching for the center of my soul.

And then a five-note jingle bell chime interrupts the most cinematic moment of my entire life.

“Shit,” I curse and sit up but I’m still straddling him.

“What was that?” he breathes hard and props himself on his elbows.

I take my phone out of my pocket. “I set that noise for notifications.” Specifically for the @maximoffdeadhale account.

Maximoff rubs his lips like he still feels me on them, and he watches me unlock my phone and pop open Instagram.

I frown at the two new pictures. Mentally, I push past the photoshopped gore, and I fixate on the locations. The first pic is clearly set in Nashville, a sign in the back, and the second city landscape is recognizable to me.

Boston.

A rock lodges in my throat, and my muscles tighten. Nashville and Boston are the next two tour stops. And both haven’t been publicly announced yet.

It can’t be a coincidence anymore, and if I woke up Omega, I’m certain they’d all say the same.

“What is it?” Maximoff asks.

My jaw tics. “You have a stalker.”

He’s not afraid. “Officially?”

“Officially. Whoever’s running this account knows about the tour before the public.” It’s someone close to the families, to security or crew, and if they have this kind of inside information, I wonder what else they have access to.