Sunlight pours through the window, cutting a bright square on the floor. I sit at Dylan’s beside and hold his larger hand between mine. I like watching him sleep.

The disease hit him hard. Turns out he’s had it way longer than his brother. He’s really lucky it was caught before any serious long-time effects set in.

For a while the guys and I seriously thought about taking him to the ER, as his fever wouldn’t drop. But even half-delirious, he refused to leave his brothers, and eventually the drugs worked, and the fever went away.

He looks much better now, his color high, and his skin cool to the touch. He’s recovering, and he looks more peaceful than I’ve ever seen him. Calmer. Happier.

It was yesterday he said he loves me and wants me to be his girl, to move in and be with him. The memory makes me smile, and I lift his hand, kiss his knuckles.

He makes a sleepy sound like sounds vaguely like a protest and quiets again. Still smiling, I place his hand back on the covers and get up to go. I’m ready for work, dressed in clothes borrowed from Erin this time.

The thought makes me frown.

I send Dylan one last look over my shoulder, wishing I could sit here with him until he’s fine. As I gather my purse, keys and jacket from the living room, I wish for my own underwear, my books, my tablet, my favorite earrings. My notebook, my photo albums, my favorite shoes, all left in my apartment. Like a war refugee, that’s how I’ve been living for weeks now, because I’m afraid to go back.

Enough. I’ve had enough of my fear. I think of how Dylan fought his own doubts and fear to have me back in his life, and I almost turn back to his room, to kiss him again.

He offered several times to accompany me to my apartment. But this is something I need to do on my own. Face Sean, if he’s stalking me. Face my dad. Face the mess that I left behind and sort it out, meet with my college advisor. Meet with my mom and see how she can help me. She says she’s on my side. Time to check if it’s true.

Time to sort the good from the bad, the truth from the lies.

My time at work flies. Mr. Walker is there, and he spends a long time telling me about the people involved in this project, so I can get a better feel for what I’m supposed to do. He’s a great boss, and I’m grateful he gave me this job. I tell him so, and he smiles.

“You earned it,” he tells me, “with the interest you showed in the project. I choose a person to work for me because this person is enthusiastic about what we’re doing here, and you convinced me you are such a person.”

I spend the rest of my time at the office smiling—and let’s face it, not just because of Mr. Walker’s words.

Dylan loves me. Dylan. Loves. Me.

Unable to sit still any longer, I get up from my chair and do a little jig around my desk. I want to laugh out loud and scream my joy.

The secretary from the adjacent room winks at me, and I sit down quickly. I rub my hands over my flushed cheeks.

“Good news, honey?” she asks kindly.

To love someone for so long, to finally lose hope only to find it again, find out he has loved me all along… “The best.”

I call my mom as I finish up for the day. Darkness is already gathering outside. Winter is at the doorstep, the days growing shorter, but it doesn’t scare me.

Not anymore.

“Oh, honey, I was going to call you, but with everything going on,” my mom chirps on the phone, “it totally slipped my mind. Getting a divorce is a nightmare! I’m right here in Madison. We should go for a coffee today so I can tell you all about it.”

I listen with half an ear at my mom’s adventures with her lawyer. She’s so talkative. Talkative. My mom, who never spoke unless to agree with my dad. It’s amazing and a little bit disconcerting. She talks about the house and how moving out is such a hassle—which reminds me.

“I need to move, too, Mom, find a cheaper apartment. You said something about a fund in my name?”

“A fund, why yes. I told you, didn’t I? We only need to go together, you with your ID and I with mine, and it’s all yours. To use wisely, of course.” A pause. “You sure you want to move out, honey?”

“Yeah. That apartment’s too expensive. I can’t afford it. Besides, I don’t need such luxury. I might even sell the jeep and buy something cheaper.”

“Are you sure about this, Tessa?” Mom’s not happy with this, I can tell, but she only sighs theatrically. “It’s your life and your money. I’m not going to tell you what to do. Both of us had enough of that with your father.”

No arguing there. “Tell you what, Mom. Why don’t we meet at the bank, and then we go for coffee?”

After a hesitation, she agrees, and I set off to meet her. One by one, the pieces of my life will fall into place.

Mom waits for me outside the bank. We enter together and activate the account. Mom hugs me afterward, and I hug her back. I tell her I missed her, and it’s sort of true. I’ve never really been close to my parents, either of them. They’re more like distant relations to me, and meeting with them has always been painful and stressful.

This version of Mom… I don’t think I’ve ever met her before. She’s a completely different person. It makes me sad to think she had a mask on for my whole life, a persona that wasn’t really her, to please my father.

“Mom…” I pause outside the bank. There are so many things I want to ask her, things I need to know. “When you fell in love with Dad, how did he treat you? Did he tell you how pretty you are? How he likes your style, or your interests?”

She shoves her hands in the pockets of her fur-lined coat, and gives me a long, measuring look. “He said I was pretty, but he tried to change me, like he tried to change you. He wanted me to do my hair up, dye it, fix my nose, plump up my lips. He wanted me to wear this or that dress, those shoes, that underwear. Then he didn’t like the magazines I read, and said I should read the same books he liked.” She shifts from foot to foot. “Hon, it was a slow process. I wanted so much to please him, hear praise from his lips. But his compliments became fewer and between, while his demands and bad moods increased. I should have left him many years ago.”

“Oh, Mom…” I link my arm through hers, and together we cross the avenue. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was my mistake, and God knows you also suffered from it. You fighting back inspired me to do the same.” She withdraws a hand from her pocket to squeeze my arm and smiles at me. “You’re stronger than me. You won’t make the same mistake. Never let anyone dictate what you should do. Deep inside,” she taps my breastbone, “you know who really loves you, who’s honest and who’s lying to you. Trust your instincts. They’re better than mine.”

“Mom…” We stop when we reach our cars. “I’m going to move in with Dylan. You remember him. Dylan Hayes?”

“That boy who dumped you in school?” She frowns. “Honey…”

“You said to trust my instincts. We’re back together, Mom, and I love him. He loves me. He asked me to move in with him, and I said yes.”

Or rather, showed him my agreement in other ways, and the memory of our wild lovemaking on his bed sends warmth up my neck.

“Tessa.” She strokes a hand down my cheek. “If you’re sure, honey, then I’m happy for you and him.”

“He’s not rich or anything,” I say, because I need to hash this out now. “He’s quite poor, but I—”

“Money isn’t everything. I should know.” A trace of bitterness laces her voice. “Nothing can replace true love. If you found it, keep it.”

That’s what I intend to do.

Since the reunion with Mom went well, I decide to tackle my apartment in one go. What are the odds that Sean is still waiting for me, after so many days? I’ll probably never even set eyes on him again.

That’s my hope.

As I drive down the familiar route to my apartment, past the building, I check. No sign of Sean’s car. The relief makes me giddy. I swipe my card for the underground parking lot.

Somewhat to my surprise, the gate opens. I’d been pretty sure Dad would have revoked all my access to the building by now. Unless Mom filing for a divorce is keeping him busy.

I roll down the ramp and park in my space, then take the elevator up to my floor. Heart pounding, I prepare my pepper spray as the doors ding and slide open.

The landing is empty. It feels so weird to be back here. Memories assault me—Sean pushing me against the wall, smiling while treating me like trash, telling me he owns me. That my dad sold me for a business deal.

Holy shit. Heart pounding with remembered fear, I push my key into the lock. It fits and turns easily. Lock hasn’t been changed, either. I enter my apartment—my former apartment, my former life—and look around me like I’ve never been here before.

Did I really live in this cold, huge space? I stand in the hall, looking into the living room with the leather sofas and the enormous flat TV, the tall bay windows and the lake beyond. The mahogany coffee tables bear Bohemia crystal ashtrays, and the lamps in the corners of the room cost more than my current paycheck. The dark gray ceramic floor gleams. A cleaner comes in twice a week, to scrub and wash and polish.

Christ. No wonder Dylan called me a princess. No wonder he thought I’d run when I saw his house and faced his problems.

The only signs I ever lived here are the archaeology posters on the walls and the books and pottery replicas on the shelves. No comparison to the messy coziness that’s Dylan’s home—even if it needs a good bout of cleaning. At least it’s warm and personal.

I step into the stainless steel-and-granite kitchen. At least here I’ve spent some time, trying out new recipes—hiding it from my parents, who think cooking is for lower life forms. I pass my hand over the black counters and open the fridge. Milk, eggs, cheese. I throw everything into the trash.

Getting rid of what has gone bad. Seems very symbolic somehow.

I return to the living room and stand at the bay windows, looking out. I fold my arms under my breasts, wondering why it’s so cold in here, in spite of the heaters whirring.

Why am I lingering? I have no cherished memories of this place—well, except for Dylan making love to me on the sofa that awful night of the gala.

I shake my head, pleasure flooding my senses and sending my mind spinning when I think of him. He’s been in my heart since I first met him at school, long before he asked me out. To be with him is more than I could ever dream of.

So… no more lingering. This isn’t my home. My home is by his side.

Smiling, I cross to my bedroom, locate my suitcase and open my closet.

Again I’m frozen in place. Was this me—the girl who dressed up in these conservative pencil skirts and silk shirts, dresses like the ones my mother wears, black pumps and sheer tights? Speechless, I stare at my collection of cashmere sweaters, my black shimmery pants, my boring black underwear.

The only crazy—crazy bad—clothes I’ve worn recently were the ones Dad sent me for the gala night, to parade me around, and those I’ve already sent back.

Jeez. How did I live like a good little pet for so long?

Furious at myself, I go through my stuff, trying to find something I can use, something I like. I end up throwing a couple of jeans and stretchy T-shirts into my suitcase, followed by a few long sweaters and a pair of cowboy boots I don’t even remember buying. Socks, boring underwear—until I can buy something more exciting—and my running shoes and sports clothes.

Then I go through my room and gather my dog-eared paperbacks, my notebooks, my favorite DVDs, my tablet and my laptop. If Dad objects to me keeping these, then screw him.

My whole life fits in a suitcase. Wow. Okay, to be fair, I’m leaving a lot behind I’d have liked to take with me—old stuff mainly, photo albums and CDs and posters, heavy coffee table art books my granddad left me when he died, bottles I decorated with melted wax and my painting tools.

When I moved in here, away from my parents, I thought I’d be free of them. Didn’t realize the fetters were anywhere I went, that I carried them in me, because I hoped for acceptance where there was none.

I slam the suitcase closed and drag it out of my bedroom on its small wheels. The sound of them rolling on the ceramic floor echoes in the empty apartment as I cross the long living room and reach the door.

There I stumble and come to a stop. The words ‘Fuck you, bitch’ have been drawn in red on the pale gray door.

Sean was here. Inside my apartment.

A shudder goes through me, fear clawing its way up my throat until I feel bile rising. I swallow convulsively, grip the handle of my suitcase more tightly.

He’s not here. Sean isn’t here, and if he is, I’m calling the police.

My cell. I dig in my purse to find it, and for a moment I panic, thinking I left it in the car, but no, there it is. I pull it out, and suck in a deep breath.

I can do this. He has a restraining order. If he as much as approaches me, I’m calling the police, and I’ll land his ass in jail.

But when I cautiously open the door, the same emptiness and silence as before greets me. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I exit and cross over to the elevator. My palms are sweaty. My pulse is booming in my ears. It’s not until I’m sitting inside my jeep, the doors locked, I can breathe again.

It strikes me that, although I faced this on my own, but it isn’t over yet. Not until I stop walking in fear.

I need to face my dad one more time, and there’s no time better than now, with the red-blood words written on my door flashing through my head and the fear driving me relentlessly. I’ll use that fear, and that anger, to break the mold of my past.

When I enter the reception area of the law firm, I find it empty. The secretary isn’t behind her desk. Still shaking, I cross and open the door to Dad’s office.

He’s sitting in his usual place, behind his massive desk. He doesn’t look up when I enter, though his eyes flicker to the side. I can see that his computer screen is dark.

I open my mouth to speak, but something keeps me back. I want to see if he’ll say something first, and what that will be.

So I walk the length of his office, to the polished shelves lining the eastern wall, and peruse the spines of the law books stacked in neat rows. Silence stretches between us like a tightrope. Who will walk it first?

“I expected you to come around sooner,” he says.

“Around to your office?”

“I mean I expected you to see sense.”

My hand, that’s been sliding along the smooth shelf, stills. “Really?”

“Sit down, Tessa,” he snaps.

I tense, but force my hands to fall, lax, at my sides. I turn slowly. “No, thank you. I’d rather stand.”

“What are you…?” His blue eyes, so similar to mine, narrow. It’s like looking into a distorted mirror. “I said sit down.”

“You can say anything you like, Dad.” My hands are curling into fists. “You don’t control me. Not anymore.”

“That’s what you think. I pay for your apartment, your gasoline, your goddamn pocket money.”

“Not anymore,” I repeat, taking a step toward him. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want the damn apartment.”

“The hell you don’t.” He starts to rise from his chair, and I wonder if I’ll have to use the pepper spray after all, on my own father. “If I take away your car and your college tuition, what will you do?”

“You can’t do that.” I step to his desk, and place both hands on it. We’re so close I can see something I never expected to see in my father’s eyes: uncertainty. “The car belongs to me. Mom gave it to me. It’s in my name. And she’s giving me money for college, so I can study what I choose.”

He slams his hands on the desk, and I flinch. I push my hand into my purse, let my fingers close around the pepper spray.

“As for the apartment,” I go on, “I’ll empty it as soon as I can. As soon as you tell the Anholts I’m not part of any frigging deal. Tell Sean if he as much as glances at me, I’m calling the police. I have a restraining order on him. Don’t make me request one for you as well.”

A slight widening of his eyes tells me he really didn’t expect any of this. I suppose nobody who knows me would have. I’ve been passive for so long, I almost forgot how to fight back.

But it’s all coming back to me now.

“So what, you’ll walk out, like your mother did? Leave it all behind, pretend money isn’t important? That you can live on air and sunshine?”

Mom didn’t ask for his money? That’s news to me. Go, Mom. “Money is important,” I say. “It’s necessary—for food, for a roof over your head, medical expenses, books and music and movies.”

He’s looking at me like he can’t figure me out. “Yes,” he says, slowly. “It is necessary.”

“And so is happiness. That means being with people who love and accept you, doing things you like, working on projects that inspire you and making a difference in the world in your own way.”

A scowl tightens his features. “Are you done with this bullshit?”

Why am I still disappointed he doesn’t get it?

“Yes, I’m done. Done with you. If you ever remember I’m your own flesh and blood, and you want to help me achieve my own goals instead of passing me around your business partners, then come find me. Dad.”

As I storm out of his office, I realize all I said won’t make a difference, not really. Sean is still out there and may still find me and hurt me. Dad can make my life hard in many ways, if he chooses to. The fear I’ll feel walking on the street alone won’t just fade and disappear.

But these things had to be said, and no matter what happens now, facing my fears was necessary, too.

As I climb into my jeep and start the engine, I feel cold. My hands can’t stop trembling.

God, what a day. I can’t image what I’d be like if I’d faced Sean, too. Thank God for small mercies. His message on my door was enough to leave me shaking.

I wonder if Dad even heard all I told him. If he’ll ever understand. Probably not. I grip the wheel and stare out into the night. Sean’s message, Dad’s expectation that I’d “come around”… Bad things come in threes, my granddad used to say.

Shit. My mind is imploding from today’s stress. Relax. I press my forehead to the cool leather of the wheel and close my eyes. Nothing really bad happened. Everything will be all right.

Yet I can’t shake the heaviness from my chest as start the engine and I drive north, heading toward Dylan and his brothers.

To push back the moodiness, I play one of the Deathmoth albums I have in my mp3. Dakota’s voice fills the car, and her anger filters through the funk I’m in. I tap the rhythm of the song on the wheel, humming along. The song rises into a crescendo as I turn onto Dylan’s street.

The flames jumping into the night sky seem part of the song’s fury, until I realize I’m really seeing them—that they’re real.

Until I realize the fire is at Dylan’s house.

God, no. I brake hard. The tires squeal, and the car fishtails a tiny bit before it comes to a stop. Pushing the door open, I jump out.

People are standing across the street from the house, some even dressed in their checkered pajamas and house robes, staring at the flames as if under a spell.

I cross the street, stumbling like I’m drunk, the heat blasting in my face. Something’s off, I realize, looking around me. No fire trucks, or ambulances, but maybe they’re on their way.

And then it hits me: Dylan and his brothers are in there—two little kids, and he’s still bed-ridden.

Oh hell.

“Have you called for help?” I grab the first bystander I find in my way and shake her. “Have you called?”

“We’ve called 9-1-1,” she says in a hushed whisper, “but, between us, I think they’re gonna be too late.”

The air leaves my lungs. “Dylan? His brothers? Have they come out?”

She shakes her head.

I ask nothing else. I start running.

The fire is at the front of the house, so maybe the back isn’t burning yet. Need to get to the back door.

Thankfully there’s a path going round the house, because the rest is this jungle of waist-high weeds. Someone was supposed to be with Dylan and the boys, I think vaguely as I race toward the back. Asher? Or Zane? Can’t remember who was coming by today. Usually by this time I’d be back to take care of Dylan and the boys.

But today I’m late. Way too late.

No. Can’t let this happen. Burning debris is falling around me, and I lift my arms to protect my head. The noise is incredible—timbers cracking and breaking, the crackle of the flames, glass shattering from the heat. Glowing embers float on the air. My footsteps are lost in the other sounds.

Hoping the back door isn’t locked, I touch the handle. It’s warm, but not too hot. I turn it and open. Smoke pours from inside, getting into my lungs, and I start to cough.

Shit. Fear constricts my lungs further, and I gasp for breath as I enter the burning house.

“Dylan!” I crouch down, because I read somewhere that you should keep low, because the smoke goes up. This seems to be true, so I crawl across the kitchen. “Miles! Teo! Where are you?”

I cough as I exit into the living room and turn toward the bedrooms. I try to call their names again, but every attempt makes me cough more, so I concentrate on reaching the boys’ room. The door is half open, so I push it and crawl inside.

It’s hard to see in the smoky air, but the beds seem empty. “Miles? Teo.”

Nothing.

The smoke is getting thicker and avoiding it gets harder as I crawl back out and start for Dylan’s room.

“Dylan?” I call out, and start coughing. I can’t seem to stop. My lungs burn. “Dylan!”

I think I hear someone shouting my name, but I can only keep moving, dragging myself into Dylan’s bedroom, hoping against all hope I can still find him, save him. The smoke is thick like sea fog, stinging hot. I reach for something that might be the bedside table, as the realization slowly sinks in that I’m probably going to die here.

“Dylan,” I whisper, my voice a painful whisper.

Then something wraps around my waist and pulls me back. “Tess!”

Well, I think as I’m hauled backward, through the toxic smoke, if I’m to die, at least it will be imagining Dylan’s voice saying my name.

We’re at some distance from Dylan’s burning house, and the flames illuminate the night in a grisly, spectacular show. The ambulance doors are open, and I’m perched on the rear step, trying to control the need to cough so I can breathe. An oxygen mask is strapped to my face.

A big, strong hand holds mine in a firm grip.

Dylan. He’s sitting right next to me, dressed in his singed pajama pants and a long coat someone must have lent him. He reeks of bitter smoke. I don’t mind. It’s as if he knows I need him as close as possible, to believe he’s really okay, really here with me.

I look up, into his deep blue eyes, and try to smile behind the scratchy plastic. He’s wearing a matching oxygen mask, and his face is pale and haggard, smudged with soot, but the warmth in his gaze grounds me.

“You came for me,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “For us.”

I want to say yes, but I can only form the word with my mouth and nod. My lips taste acrid and vile.

He squeezes my hand. I went in for him, and he did the same. Went right back into the flames for me.

From what I managed to gather from Dylan’s few hoarse words and what the paramedics told me, his brothers woke him up when the fire started, and together they managed to open the back window and climb out. They crawled through a hole in the fence to their neighbors’ house and called 9-1-1. By the time they went out to the street, a small crowd had gathered, and someone told him a blonde woman had gone inside, looking for him.

So he’d left his brothers in his neighbors’ care and went inside to find me.

By now, the Brotherhood has arrived. The guys are milling around the ambulance, talking among themselves.

Audrey comes to hug me, tears rolling down her face, and won’t let go until Ash drags her off to console her. Erin and Tyler are sitting inside their car, talking about something. Zane is holding Dakota close, as if afraid she’ll get hurt if he lets go. Rafe was here, but now he’s gone again. Comes and goes like smoke.

I shudder, and Dylan gives my hand another reassuring squeeze.

The fire department is hard at work, putting out the fire. Even from this distance I can hear the deafening sizzle of water hitting the flames. Nobody knows yet what started the fire. The boys had been in bed, and so had Dylan, when they realized. It might have started in the kitchen, one of the old appliances short-circuiting. It’s an old house.

Miles and Teo are asleep in the back of the ambulance, wrapped in thin blankets, their small faces dirty but relaxed. Everyone is safe.

The knowledge takes its good time to sink in, hampered by the mad adrenaline rush and the discomfort of the awful cough caused by the smoke inhalation.

Time passes in fits and starts, like in a dream, the images, sounds, impressions, and feelings all jumbled and randomly mixed. The only constant is Dylan’s presence, the strength of his fingers wrapped around mine, the realization he’d give his life for me. That he puts me above his own.

Trust your instincts. Trust your feelings.

Trust Dylan.

Someone is walking toward us, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Rafe. The flames leaping behind him turn his short blond hair into a halo and outline his tall, strong body.

Dylan shifts, pushing off the step, but Rafe lifts a hand, signaling for him to stay. His face is stern, and I can’t tell if his normally light cat eyes are dark because of worry, or if it’s just the night closing around us.

“How are you guys holding up?” He nods at me, then turns his attention back to Dylan without waiting for an answer. Something seems to be on his mind.

“Hey,” Dylan rasps, reaching up to adjust the oxygen mask. He and Rafe pump fists.

“Been hanging around the firefighters,” Rafe says, and I see Dylan’s brows climb up to his hairline.

Why? I want to ask Rafe, but every time I try to speak, a coughing fit grips me, so I just watch curiously as he grinds his jaw and turns to look over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be listening in.

“The police are here,” he finally says.

Police? What’s going on?

Dylan pulls the mask off his face. “Why?”

“A body was found,” Rafe says. “Inside the house.”

A body. A corpse.

Dylan pushes off the step, standing up, but Rafe pushes him back down with a hand on his shoulder. “Who?”

“Dylan…” Rafe scratches the back of his head, and behind him I can see the guys approaching, clustering behind Rafe like a human wall, hiding the world.

This doesn’t bode well.

“What?” Dylan stares at them, his gaze jumping from one to the next. His lips are white with tension. “Who was it?”

“Hell...” Rafe glances to the side, away from Dylan’s face. “Look, Tessa told me the cult your dad was involved with, and as soon as I heard about the fire, I knew…”

“Knew what?” Dylan grinds out, and by now I think I know what Rafe is going to say. “Knew what?”

Ice spreads through me.

“Fuck, I’m no good at this.” Turning, Rafe walks a few steps and kicks at a loose stone. “Tell him, Z-man.”

“Damn.” Zane steps forward and runs his hands over the shaved sides of his head. His jaw is tense. “Look, Dyl… There’s no easy way to say it. It was your dad. He started the fire and died in it.”

The words buzz in my ears.

Dylan’s face turns white as paper. “My dad. My dad started the fire?” He’s staring at Zane, his eyes round. He clearly wasn’t expecting this, and it hits me that I never told him what Rafe said about Sky Gate and his suspicions. “And he’s dead?”

“Dammit.” Zane looks like he wants to punch someone, the way his fisted hands shake at his sides. His mouth twists. “I’m sorry, fucker.”

Dylan’s breathing harshly, and reaching up, I pull the oxygen mask back over his face. I squeeze his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Dakota tugs on Zane’s elbow. “Let’s give him some space.”

“Yeah.” But Zane hesitates. “You two,” he glances at me, fury and sorrow clashing in his dark gaze, “are getting tattoos from me. I’ll be waiting for you at Damage Control once this is over.”

Tattoos? What on earth is he talking about?

Dakota pulls him with her. One by one, the guys step away. Rafe still has his back to us, breathing heavily. I wonder if he feels guilty for having his suspicions but not acting on them.

Then again, what could he have done?

Dylan is staring right ahead, his eyes unseeing. I see the glimmer of tears gathering, but not one spills over. His cheeks are dry, his mouth white. His quick breaths fog the inside of the clear mask, and his broad shoulders tremble.

I can’t imagine what he must be feeling—knowing not only that his father set the fire that burned down their house with all their belongings, almost killing him and his brothers in the process, but that he’s now dead, too. No chance to talk, try to get some explanation, some closure. Say goodbye.

Dylan hunches over, his breath hitching for the first time. I expect him to get up and walk away—hide his face, his emotions—or maybe work out his sorrow, kick some stones like Rafe did, maybe even punch Rafe or something—but he doesn’t move, doesn’t stir, only holds my hand more tightly.

After a moment, I shift closer and lean my shoulder against his. He lets go of my hand to wrap his arm around me. He hugs me to him fiercely, tucking my head under his chin, and I hug him back as he shudders in the burning night.