Candice's fingers tightened around the warm mug.
Seven pairs of eyes waited.
She looked at Sam first, then at the others — Theodore's steady gaze, Joshua's barely contained intensity, Derick's restless stillness, William's quiet watchfulness, Richard's hand still resting lightly against the back of her neck.
David ran into the living room "I'm staying in her room tonight." Huffing like he ran a marathon.
Sam's expression didn't change. Theodore glanced toward the stairs. Joshua's jaw flexed once.
Richard's fingers stilled against her skin.
"David it is," Sam concluded, as if testing the word. Then he gave a single, slow nod. "All right."
No one argued.
David looked relieved.
"I'll stay with her," he said smiling.
Sam stood. The others followed in a loose, unspoken agreement.
"What about the movie..." She thought, watching as they all left the room.
One by one they filed out of the living room — Theodore pausing long enough to rest a hand briefly on Candice's shoulder, Joshua giving her a look that said this isn't over, Derick muttering something under his breath that sounded almost like good. William and Richard lingered a second longer than the rest before disappearing down the hall.
Sam was the last.
He stopped in front of Candice, close enough that she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes.
"He's the calmest of us," Sam said quietly. "That's why you're getting him tonight. Don't mistake it for softness."
What really happened to them while she was gone?
Then he left.
David remained by the doorway, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, waiting.
Candice set the mug down and stood.
They walked upstairs in silence. When they reached her room, David held the door open for her, then closed it behind them with a soft click. The sound felt final.
He didn't turn on the main light. Only the small lamp on the nightstand glowed, casting the room in warm amber.
David pulled the old armchair closer to the bed and sat, elbows on his knees, watching her.
"You can change," he said. "I'll look away."
Candice hesitated, then nodded. She grabbed an oversized T-shirt from the drawer and stepped into the small en-suite. When she came back out, David's gaze flicked over her once before returning to her face.
She climbed into the bed that still smelled faintly of the detergent Theodore always used. The sheets were cool.
David stayed in the chair.
For a long time neither of them spoke. Rain tapped against the window. Somewhere downstairs a door closed.
Finally Candice turned onto her side, facing him.
"You're really just going to sit there all night?"
David's mouth curved, small and almost sad.
"I said I'd stay with you. I didn't say I'd make it easy."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.
"Sleep, Candice. I'm not going anywhere."
His eyes, steady and dark in the low light, made the promise feel heavier than the words themselves.
Candice closed her eyes.
She could still feel the house listening.
And David, only a few feet away, keeping watch
Candice tried to sleep.
She really did.
But every time she closed her eyes she was aware of him — the quiet sound of David breathing, the occasional soft shift of fabric as he adjusted in the chair, the weight of his gaze even when she wasn't looking.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.
Eventually she opened her eyes again.
David was still there, exactly where she'd left him. The lamp cast half his face in shadow. He wasn't on his phone. He wasn't reading. He was simply watching her, as if the act of keeping her in sight was the only thing that mattered.
"You're not sleeping," he said quietly.
"Neither are you."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "Didn't plan to."
Candice pushed herself up on one elbow. The oversized T-shirt slipped off one shoulder. David's eyes followed the movement for a second before returning to her face.
"You don't have to stay in the chair," she said.
The words hung in the air between them.
David was still for a long moment. Then he stood. The armchair creaked softly as he left it. He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at her.
"Move over."
She did.
He sat on the edge of the mattress first, then stretched out on top of the covers, fully clothed, on his back. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the blanket, but not quite touching.
Candice turned onto her side to face him.
David kept his eyes on the ceiling for a while. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before.
"Sam was right, you know."
"About what?"
"That I'm the calmest." He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. "Doesn't mean I don't feel it the same way they do. I've just gotten better at waiting."
Candice's throat felt tight. "Waiting for what?"
David's gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes.
"For you to stop running."
The rain had softened outside. Somewhere in the house a floorboard creaked — one of the others still awake, still listening.
David lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. His fingers lingered at her temple, then trailed down to rest lightly against the side of her neck. His touch was careful. Controlled. But there was nothing soft about the way his eyes held hers.
"You're here now," he said. "That's all that matters tonight."
Candice didn't pull away.
She let her eyes close again, this time with the solid warmth of him only inches away and the quiet certainty that, for once, she wasn't going to wake up alone.
David's hand stayed where it was — a steady, wordless claim against her skin.
And somewhere downstairs, the rest of the house finally began to settle.
David's hand stayed against her neck longer than it needed to.
Candice felt the slow drag of his thumb along the side of her throat, deliberate, testing. When her breath hitched, he didn't pull away. He only watched her reaction in the low light, eyes darker than they had been downstairs.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm not cold."
"I know."
His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone where the T-shirt had slipped. The touch was still controlled, but the restraint in it was starting to fray. Candice could feel it — the careful way he held himself, like he was measuring how much further he could go before something snapped.
She didn't stop him.
David shifted closer on the mattress. The space between them disappeared. His chest brushed her arm; his knee nudged against hers through the blanket. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped into something rougher.
"Do you have any idea what it was like?" he asked. "Watching the door every day. Checking your old messages. Listening to Sam pace the hallway at three in the morning because he couldn't sleep either."
Candice's throat worked. "I—"
"We all felt it." His fingers curled lightly around the side of her neck, not tight, but firm enough that she felt claimed. "Different ways. Same hunger. And you were gone."
He leaned in until his forehead almost touched hers. His breath warmed her mouth.
"You're not gone anymore."
Candice's heart was beating hard enough that she was sure he could feel it under his palm. She should have said something — anything — but the words wouldn't come. All she could do was look at him.
David's gaze dropped to her lips.
For a second she thought he would close the distance.
Instead he exhaled slowly, like he was forcing himself back from the edge, and rested his forehead against hers properly. His hand stayed where it was, thumb still stroking absently over her pulse.
"Not yet," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "If I start, I won't stop. And the others are still awake. They'd hear. They'd come."
The thought sent a different kind of heat through her.
David noticed. Of course he did. His mouth curved, small and dark.
"You like that idea," he said quietly. "Don't you?"
Candice didn't answer. She didn't need to.
He stayed close, their breaths mixing, his hand never leaving her skin. The tension between them stretched taut and humming, held in place only by the thin thread of his self-control and the knowledge that six other men in the house were very much aware of who was in her room tonight.
David's voice was almost a whisper against her mouth.
"Sleep while you can, Candice. Tomorrow they're not going to be this patient."
He didn't move away.
And neither did she.