The words are quiet and flat. As he says them, he moves a hand over his face—fingertips clutching at his forehead, like he has a headache.

“WHAT?”

He lowers his hand. His face is hard and tight. “That’s how I became a ward of the state, Evie.”

My stomach twists up. Someone left Landon at the hospital when he was two? Why? Was he sick? Was it on purpose? I remember how this conversation started, and I feel a heavy pit in my stomach. “God…Landon. I didn’t know.”

“Of course not.” The words are growled.

“When you were two?” I whisper.

“About.”

“Do you know why?” The words are wobbly—because my throat is tight.

“What’s your favorite memory when you were two?”

“Umm…I don’t—oh. So you don’t know.” I sink my teeth into my lower lip, trying to picture Landon as a two-year-old, left in an ER. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Neither can I,” he says dryly.

“Do you know anything about it? Would you rather me not ask?”

He shrugs, his face carefully neutral. “Probably my mother. On the admission papers, she put ‘Ash Ville.’”

I try to envision a woman with Landon’s gray eyes checking into an ER here with him, and then leaving him behind. I truly can’t imagine.

“God, Landon. So you have no idea.”

He shakes his head.

“Was she…was your mother sick?”

He shakes his head again.

“Do you know for sure that she—you know, that she meant to leave?”

“Ash Ville.” He arches his brows. “She didn’t leave her real name, Evie. It’s not hard to put the pieces together.” He doesn’t even sound upset about it; just resigned.

I swallow. Who would do that? What kind of mother leaves their kid and never looks back? Fury simmers in me. I feel this itchy sense of wanting to do something, but I’m fourteen years too late.

“I wish I could do something. I’m so sorry, Landon. That’s so crappy.” And my words are so inadequate. I exhale slowly, but my stomach won’t unclench.

Landon shrugs, and then sighs, rubbing his hair. “I can’t sleep here, apparently.”

“Of course not,” I murmur. “Can you sleep at home?”

His mouth flattens, curving slightly. “No.”

“So…you can’t go to sleep—or can’t stay asleep?”

“I didn’t know you’d gotten your M.D. already.” When I arch a brow at him, he sighs and rubs his face. “Neither.”

“I didn’t mean to play doctor. Sorry. I just want to fix things for you. Have you had trouble sleeping for a long time?”

“Off and on,” he says, his eyes dipping to the floor.

“When’s the last time you were sleeping well?”

He rubs his forehead, looking at me around his hand. “Before my last ‘family’ decided to move to Munich.”

My chest aches at the vacant look in his eyes. “So—when you were settled.”

He gives a bitter laugh. “Settled.”

“More settled?”

Closing his eyes, he shakes his head: a rueful shake. “Evie…”

“Oh, hush. You like my doctoring.”

He looks at me with raised brows. “If you say so.”

“I have an idea.” I bite my lip. “But…you have to do what I say.”

“What?”

I try to draw a fortifying breath as my heart hammers. Then I whisper, “Come sit by me.”

He blinks. “I am sitting by you.”

“On the bed.” I pat the covers beside me.

Skepticism stamps his face, and self-doubt sweeps me. I’m probably still sweaty from practice, and I embarrassed myself so much in the last twelve hours with my crying and everything else. Maybe he doesn’t want to be up close to me. With some effort, I shove the thought away.

This is Landon. He’s just difficult.

“Come on.” I rub the sheets. “I won’t bite if you do what I say.”

He laughs, and it feels good to see him smile, so I laugh, too.

“Come on,” I urge. “This bed is big enough for both of us.”

He looks down at himself.

“I know you’re still in soccer gear, but I don’t mind. We’ll be dirty together.”

He gives me a smirk, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I guess I walked right into that.” My gosh, my cheeks are burning.

“Now you have to come sit by me, so I can punch you in the arm.”

He stands, looking reluctant.

I can’t help giggling. “C’mon, Landon. I’m not that bad. Take off your shoes, cover up with one of my seven thousand blankets, and use one of these eleven pillows. Then we’ll watch TV.”

“And?” He lifts a brow.

“You’ll go to sleep.”

He gives me a look that says Yeah, right, and I pat the bed again. He moves the rail and eases down gently beside me.

I’m fairly narrow, and for reasons I now can’t remember, I’m kind of nestled into the right side of the bed, by that rail. So there’s a natural space for Landon on the left side.

Still, it’s strange to feel his body sink into the bed beside mine, to see how much bigger he is than me. Our hips are okay sharing space, but as soon as he sits back, his shoulders crowd mine.

I look up at him, and it’s overwhelming, how very close he is. He smells like grass and sweat and male; his body seems so thick and hard.

By the time he stretches his legs fully out, being careful not to bump my foot, I’m so wound up, I giggle.

Landon glares dramatically at me. “You laughing at something?”

“Those are really giant shoes. Attached to giant legs. What size are they?”

He shifts a little. “Twelve.”

“You should take them off.”

He shakes his head. “I’m leaving them.”

“You think you can sleep with shoes on?”

“I don’t think that’s my problem, Evie,” he says drolly.

“Fine, fine. But cover up.” I hand him one of my blankets, and with a brief look at the door, he spreads it over his lap.

“No one will care that you’re in here. I’m sure my parents think you’re a national hero. And everyone probably knows I was freaking out earlier and need a friend. Did I say anything stupid?”

He smiles down from his position a foot or so above me. “Just that I’m your favorite person. And I think you’re on track. The word ‘hero’ was used.”

I snort. “Was it? Are you sure it wasn’t zero?”

He leans back against the top half of my elevated bed, folding his arms in front of him. “Yep. I’m fairly positive.”

I shrug. “Well, I’m liberal with praises when I’m on the harder drugs.”

Maybe I’m still on harder drugs—because right then, I lean my head against his arm. Suddenly, I’m feeling sort of sleepy…and more than a little cozy.

I can feel his muscles tense under my cheek, showing me that Landon does not.

“Sorry.” I lift my head. “I’m still kind of funky.”

“I can confirm that,” he says, bumping me gently with his arm.

I swat it. “Turn on the TV.”

He cuts his gray gaze down at me. “You’re bossy.”

“It’s a gift.”

He smiles, and I notice for the first time how white his teeth are.

Landon turns the TV on, and we quickly realize we don’t have a lot of options. Just the Weather Channel and “The Late Show.” Maybe something’s wrong with our TV.

We settle on “The Late Show,” and I lean back against the bed. Then I grab one of the spare pillows and pass it to Landon. “So you don’t hit your head on the rail.”

He takes it, but he’s smirking. “I’m not going to fall asleep.”

“Are you kidding me? You look exhausted.”

“I look great.”

“For a thirty-year-old,” I tease. I press the button on my bed’s rail, causing the bed to lurch, moving slowly and noisily into a more reclined position. When I let go of the button, the bed has crunched itself so our legs are slightly elevated, our butts are kind of in a hole, and our shoulders are reclined.

Landon laughs. “You’re right. Comfortable.”

Tears spring to my eyes as I laugh. Landon notices and frowns at my leg. “Do you need more medicine?” he asks, sounding concerned.

“I don’t think so. I’m just really overtired.” I lean my head back and shut my eyes. “I don’t think I can sleep either. Maybe this whole plan was just a ploy to have you help me sleep.”

His voice comes softly. “I’d do that.”

“I really hate this,” I say in a broken-sounding voice. I curl my good leg up toward me. “I’m already tired of having a broken ankle.”

I hear and feel him exhale. Then I feel his finger on my cheek, beneath one of my damp eyes. “I’m sorry.”

A few more tears drip down my cheek, and Landon wipes them. In my entire life, I’ve never been so still as I am underneath his fingertips. The more tears fall, the more he brushes them away. Shock burrows like a cool weight in my belly.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks in a low voice.

I sniff, even as I think I may pass out from joy. “Don’t judge me. I’m not usually a baby.”

I hear the smile in his voice, even as his fingers stroke my cheek. “I’d never judge you, Evie.”

I feel his hand leave my face, feel him move, and then his arm is trying to get around my shoulders. I lean up, and he scoots closer, so we’re sitting right by each other—so close, I can feel him exhale.

“Tell me something,” I whisper, as I look around the dark room, then at our legs under the covers.

“Something good?”

I shake my head. “Just something true.”

I feel his rib cage press against mine as he inhales, feel his shoulders sink as he exhales—right beside me, so close I think I can even feel his heartbeat. For a long time, he just breathes, and I can feel it in the ether: something devastating, rolling quietly out in front of us.

“After I was left here,” he says softly, “DHS ran ads in the newspaper. Every Sunday, for an entire year. The year of 1992. The Citizen-Times gave out free copies on Sundays sometimes…”

I hear him swallow.

“Asking if someone had…lost a two-year-old.” His voice goes hoarse on the word lost. “There was this fucking number.” I can feel him draw a deep breath. “If they called, they had to describe…me. Hair, eye color. Birthmarks.” He rubs his eyes with the hand that’s not around my shoulders, his hand covering his face. “I’ve got a birth mark on my shoulder blade,” he says into his palm. I feel him shake his head. “No one who called knew.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his pain bleeding out into the ether. Up against me, his body feels so still. Then he takes a giant, deep breath, and I can feel him struggle as he rasps, “I saw this little kid today…when I was waiting on you. Little red-headed kid. Ev…he had his arms around his mother’s legs. She was sitting with her hand wrapped in a towel. He was standing right beside her.”

Another deep, laborious breath, and when he lowers his hand, I can see his eyes are damp.

His lips press together, and for a second, he just blinks ahead.

I feel my own tears sting my eyes. “She couldn’t stay, Landon. Something was the matter with her. There’s no other reason.”

“I asked for her.” He inhales again. “I asked for her for a few months. That’s what my papers say. I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember.”

“I’m so sorry, Landon.” I draw closer to him as I whisper, “That must be the worst thing in the world.”

“I have this fucking dream…” He puts his forehead in his hand. “It’s this long, white hall, and people are walking by. But they won’t look down.”

At him, I think he means. People are walking by him, but they won’t look down. They won’t acknowledge him.

He lets a rough breath out, then gently moves his arm out from behind me. Landon puts his face in both his hands.

I wrap my arms around him from the side and feel him inhale deeply.

“I’m so sorry…”

I can feel him holding in his tears, can feel the tension gather in his body. Instead of sobbing, though, he just breathes…and breathes, a little heavier with every passing second, till he brings his hands up to his mouth, and I realize belatedly: he’s kind of hyperventilating.

The trick for that is breathing into a paper bag—it forces you to inhale your own carbon dioxide—but I don’t think there’s one of those around.

When his breaths get shallower and louder, more frantic, I glance down at the nurse call button. Then I turn more toward him, pull his hands off his mouth, cup my own hands around his mouth, and lean in close, so I can breathe into the dome of my fingers.

I see his eyes shut as my warm breath fills my hands and then his lungs. It’s not airtight, but I guess it’s something, because after a few breaths, I can feel his torso moving less. I shut my eyes and keep breathing into his mouth. His hands come up and cover mine.

It’s working.

I can feel the tension start to leave his arms and shoulders. Unexpectedly, his head dips down, so our foreheads are touching. His hands leave mine and come down on my shoulders, holding onto me.

I keep on breathing.

Never have I felt so full of power. Not the forceful, gaudy kind, but real and pure—a kind of love. I’m heady with it. Underneath my hands, I feel his face. I’m touching Landon.

When he pulls me closer, I don’t think at all. When his lips touch mine, I’m still focused on breathing. Then his mouth rubs gently over mine, and I shiver. His tongue explores the corner of my lips. I open for him, and his mouth and mine collide.

Gravity releases me, and I AM KISSING LANDON.

Landon’s hands around my head. Landon’s mouth so hard and hot. Landon’s tongue and my tongue. A shudder ripples through him, and through me, too. I freeze, only my hands moving; they touch his shoulders. His mouth moves again on mine.

Nothing, not the closeness of our hugging nor the feel of his face underneath my hands, nothing has prepared me for his greedy mouth. My pulse races as I try to take what I need, too. I give back what I get and open deeper for him. Then I have to pull away—to breathe.

Landon’s hand around my head pulls me back close. His mouth consumes mine. One kiss…two…then three. Time slides by until he breaks our rhythm. I can feel him panting. He laughs. He comes in again, and then, before his mouth can find mine in the dark, his head leans down. His hands come to his face.

“Oh my God.” It’s moaned.

And then he’s off the bed.

I’m reeling, my mouth throbbing from our violent kisses. I can barely see him in the dark. I think he’s over by the window.

“Fuck.”

The word is harsh and cold—a slap. His shoulders rise and fall a few times. “Fuck.”

“Don’t say that.” My voice quivers.

“Evie—fucking shit.” He whirls on me. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

I feel breathless as I watch him pace around the window. I can hear him murmuring—I think it’s curses.

He comes closer, hands in his hair, chest pumping. “Evie. Fuck, I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry. I was— Christ, I’m fucking stupid.” He drops down into the chair beside my bed and covers his face with his hands.

“Hey—it’s okay. Landon…” I reach for him, catching one wrist. I take his hand in both of mine, and he looks up into my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t be sorry,” I tell him. “Look—you’re better.”

He laughs darkly. “I’m not better.”

“You’re not breathing hard.”

“Believe me, I’m breathing hard.” He says it like he’s trying to prove something, but I’m right: he isn’t. “What I— That wasn’t okay. I can’t be doing shit like that.”

“Kissing?” I manage. My body still feels like a sparkler at the Fourth of July. My head may never stop spinning.

“Yes. Christ.” He gets up and starts to pace the room. “This is how I fuck things up! I can’t afford to fuck things up.” He sounds desperate. Almost scared.

It stings at first, but then I stop and really think about him. Landon has no one. Our house…it’s really peaceful, and he has his own space. My parents care about him. Of course he would be panicked at the thought of losing that.

“Landon—come back over here.” I beckon him, and he returns to stand beside my bed. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I won’t tell. Ever. I would never tell if you—if I shouldn’t.”

He nods, looking at his feet.

“I won’t tell.”

“It can’t happen again,” he murmurs. He looks up at me with those gray eyes, and I nod slowly. “Okay. It won’t.”

He nods.

“Do you need anything?” he asks, not fully meeting my eyes.

“No. I’m fine,” I lie.

He nods toward the couch. “I’m going over there.”

“Okay.”

For the rest of the night, I can hear him toss and turn atop the vinyl.