Thorne
“Get off me, asshole.” I shove Ryder’s deadweight of a head off my shoulder, clawing my way out of the murky remnants of a nightmare, only to find him draped over me like a damn blanket. His face is a breath too close, limbs sprawled over the cramped truck backseat as if he owns the space. I push harder, sneering, “For f**k’s sake, Ryder. Personal space.”
He grunts in protest, stretching lazily, smirking in that irritating way of his, like he’s never met a problem he couldn’t charm or punch his way out of. “You have that?” he asks, winking as he rubs a thumb over his jaw. On any other day, he’d be groggy and foul-mouthed until he’s had his caffeine hit. But today, there’s a glint in his eye that says he’s wired on something else. Must be the thrill of being this close to Roseburg,
