Take Trevor home

The night air hits me like a slap — cool, sharp, and clean after the heat and noise of the bar. For a second, it clears my head, makes me feel almost sober. But then Trevor’s hand finds mine, his fingers wrapping tight, and that haze creeps back in, warm and heavy.

We weave through the street, his pace sure, his grip firm — a little too firm, but I let it slide. Part of me likes it. Likes the way he takes control, how he’s guiding me like he knows exactly where we’re headed. Maybe it’s the drinks, maybe it’s the thrill — but I don’t pull away.

I feel the city thinning out around us — fewer cars, fewer voices. Just the soft scuff of our boots on the pavement. The air’s cooler here, and it raises goosebumps on my arms where his fingers aren’t.

His thumb strokes the back of my hand — not tender, exactly, more like… possessive. I should care more. I should be paying attention.

There's practically no one on the streets but us at this hour, just a figure way ahead of us, standing there.

We pass the mouth of an alley, dark and narrow, and Trevor slows, pulling me toward it.

“Hey, what’s up?” My voice is light, but my heart gives a tiny stutter.

He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer, his hands finding my waist, and his mouth is on mine before I can say another word. The kiss is harder this time — demanding, hungry. And I let him.

For a moment, I’m caught up in it — in the heat, in the way his hands grip me like he can’t get enough.

But then something shifts.

His hands roam higher, fingers brushing the side of my breast, and I feel him pushing me back — just a step at first. Then another. And another.

I blink, realizing we’re off the sidewalk now, swallowed by the shadows of the alley.

“Hey…” I break the kiss, breathless, trying to laugh it off. “Maybe slow down a little? We can… take this to my place.” I try to keep my tone playful, but it comes out thinner than I want.

Trevor doesn’t answer. His grip tightens. His hands slide lower, then higher again — rough, insistent. His body presses me back until I feel the cold bite of brick against my spine.

That’s when the alarm bells really start blaring.

“Trevor.” My voice is sharper now, cutting through the fog in my head. I push at his chest — not hard at first, just enough to say stop. But he doesn’t move.

And then I see it — that flicker in his eyes.

There’s no warmth there. No charm. Just something dark, something twisted.

“Relax,” he murmurs, low, like a promise or a threat. His hand slides down my side again, fingers digging in.

I try to move sideways, to slip past him, but his arm shoots out, blocking me. My heart’s racing for all the wrong reasons now.

And then I hear it — a soft scrape, metallic. My eyes drop, and my stomach turns cold.

A knife.

A fucking knife.

The streetlight in the distance glints off the blade as he lifts it slow, like he wants me to see. Like he’s been waiting for this moment. The cold steel brushes the skin under my jaw, and I go rigid, every nerve screaming.

“Don’t fight,” Trevor says, his voice so calm it makes my skin crawl. Like this is normal. Like this is fine.

His grin stretches wide, and there’s nothing human left in it. No warmth, no playfulness — just this sick, twisted hunger that makes my blood run cold.

Oh God. Oh fuck.

My heart is pounding so loud it drowns out everything — the city noise, the night air, even my own breathing.

He’s a fucking psycho.

Am I about to fucking die in this alley?

Panic claws at my chest, wild and ****. My mind is racing, grasping at anything, any way out — but the knife is so close, and his body’s blocking mine, and I can feel the brick at my back, cold and rough and unmovable.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening.