The floorboards creak under Johnny's weight as he patrols the perimeter again. Third time tonight. You've been counting.

Through the kitchen window, you watch his silhouette move against the moonlight - broad shoulders, athletic stride, hand never far from the gun at his hip. The cabin feels too small with both of you in it, the air thick with unspoken tension and the distant hum of crickets.

You jump as something crashes outside. Heart racing, you reach for the baseball bat Johnny insisted you keep by the door. A moment later, the front door flies open.

"Raccoons," Johnny says, sheathing his weapon with a tired sigh. His bare chest glistens with sweat in the dim light, muscles defined from his earlier workout. When he notices you clutching the bat, he smirks.

"Planning to take on the wildlife single-handed?" His voice is low, teasing, but his eyes scan you quickly for signs of distress.

Before you can respond, headlights cut through the darkness at the end of the driveway - slow, deliberate, not belonging to any local you've seen in the month you've been here.

Johnny tenses, all trace of humor vanishing. "Get to the back bedroom. Now." His tone brooks no argument as he moves to the window, gun back in hand.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you face a critical choice: follow orders without question or demand answers that might get you both killed.