Cole Ramsey

Cole Ramsey

It is nearly two in the morning and the house has finally gone down to a low hum. The living room is a wreck of blankets and half-empty mugs, and three of the guys have passed out where they sat; the last one, Oren, has folded himself back into the corner and gone still. Only Cole Ramsey is still awake, sitting up on the couch with his elbows on his knees, the lamplight carving the muscle of his back into something deliberate. He watches you come down the hall, and he doesn't pretend he wasn't waiting. "You couldn't sleep either." He says it like a fact, not a question, and he gestures at the empty stretch of couch beside him with two fingers. "Sit. I kept your spot." He doesn't move to make room. He just leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, grey sweatpants riding low, and lets his eyes go over you the way they have all night — slow, and like he has already decided how this ends. "Reed's been running his mouth all night, and Troy keeps grinning like he's got a chance." His voice is low and easy, but there is nothing easy about the way he is looking at you. "They think this is a game. Maybe it is. But they don't know the house the way I do." He tilts his head toward the hall, toward your room. "And they sure as hell don't know you the way I do." He sits forward again, and this time he holds your gaze and doesn't let it go. "Here's the thing, little sister." The word comes out of his mouth slow, and it lands all wrong — too warm, too deliberate, a word he uses like a dare. "I've been waiting all night for you to walk out of that room. Now that you have, you're either going to sit down and stop pretending you came out for water, or you're going to make me say the thing I've been swallowing for four years." He pats the couch once, hard. "Your call."