The antique grandfather clock ticks, reminding me of every second that passes. It feels like a million seconds have ticked by since I made the deal with Monroe yesterday, but, in reality, it’s only been a little over twenty-four hours.

I've hated that walnut clock since I was a kid. My mother always said it was her prized possession, an heirloom from her own grandmother. She'd warn us not to toss balls or wrestle in the dining room because of that damn clock. There's a crack in the back of it that she doesn't know about thanks to Lincoln's handiwork.

"You listening to me, son?"

Dad nudges me in the arm and I snap back to the present. We've been going at this for hours. It feels like we're beating a dead horse. We go over every angle of the election frontwards and backwards, and every time, it winds up in the same spot: too close for comfort. On paper, I did the right thing by selling my soul to the devil himself. In reality, I feel less than stellar about it.

"Yeah, I'm listening, Dad."

"Good. So when Monroe endorses you, we'll watch the poll numbers. He should really clinch the north for you. They listen to that son of a bitch for whatever reason."

I nod, swishing the rest of my coffee in my mug. "It's going to be fine. I think it would've been fine anyway."

"I get doing what you need to do in order to win," Lincoln says, his eyes narrowed, "but I think this was a fuck-up."

"Linc, stay out of this," Dad warns.

"You push him and push him to do what you think is right. Has it ever occurred to you for one second that maybe he can make his own decisions?"

“He made the choice,” Graham says, looking at Lincoln across the table.

Lincoln laughs. “Him ‘making that decision’ would be like a coach telling me to swing at the first three pitches without letting me get up there and get a good look at it first. It’s asinine.”

“We don’t have time for baseball metaphors,” Graham says, rolling his eyes. “This had to be done. It’s not something we can explain to you in a matter of hours. This is not balls and strikes.”

“You know what? Fuck you,” Lincoln says, but he’s not entirely kidding. “I may not know much about politics, but that was by choice. And not knowing shit about that doesn’t mean I don’t know what a good decision looks like.”

I sigh, watching my brothers and father go at it right in front of me. Seeing them at odds over this campaign, the frustration in their eyes, it makes me feel horrible.

Pushing away from the table, I stand and look down at my father. I know what I'll look like in another twenty years. I wonder how much I'll resemble him in other ways.

Giving him a tight smile, I nod and walk out. My mother grins at me from the kitchen as I walk by, but doesn't speak. She watches me, her brows pulled together.

Troy is standing outside the front door and pops open the back of the Rover. I slide in and he's in the driver's seat before I know it.

"Where to?" he asks, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

I shrug. Nowhere sounds good. I feel alone, completely fucking alone, and that's where I want to be.

"Just drive."

I don’t tell him to take me to her place, but he does anyway. Maybe that means I’m a lost cause or maybe it means he knows me well enough to see what I need. Either way, when the Rover pulls up in front of the little white house, I can’t help but feel relieved.

Troy catches my eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Thanks,” I say, nodding.

He doesn’t respond, just watches me climb out and make my way to the front door. I knock a few quick raps and she pulls it open right away. Her face lights up when she sees me and I step inside and waste no time getting my arms around her.

She buries her head in my chest and plants a kiss on my sternum. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers.

“Me too.”

She closes the door behind us and we amble into the living room. I don’t let go of her; I need her touch, her presence, to assuage some of the stress rioting through me.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Shitty.” I sit down and pull her onto my lap. Nuzzling my face into her hair, I breathe her in and let it comfort me like it always does. “But I’m better at the moment.”

“I’ve been thinking about you all day. You sounded so upset last night. If Hux hadn’t been home, I would’ve come and found you.”

“This not being with you all the time, having you accessible to me, has got to end.”

“One thing at a time, okay?” she whispers, kissing my cheek. “I’m here for you whenever you need me. You need to just focus on work for the next few days.”

I hold her tight, this precious girl that dropped into my life with a tray of champagne. She has no idea what she means to me or that I need her every minute of every day.

“Can I just hold you right now?” I ask, feeling my nerves settle. “I don’t want to think about anything other than what you feel like in my arms.”

“Sounds good to me,” she says and gets comfortable in my lap.

For the next half hour, I sit on her couch in the outskirts of Savannah and hold the one thing that I’m sure is the right thing.