An ice machine rumbles in the vending enclave. I crave to run, to swim, to feel something other than confined, hollowed out or empty.

I smack the side of a black-and-gold Fizzle machine that won’t spit out a Fizz Life.

“Move, wolf scout.”

My pulse skips. Reminding me I’m alive. Breathing. Human. I look over my shoulder.

A six-foot-three, tattooed know-it-all comes up behind me. His brows raise and lower in a wave.

I feign confusion. “Who are you again?”

Farrow kicks the machine. A can drops. “Your boyfriend.” He collects the soda from the dispenser and tosses the silver aluminum can to me. “Want to talk about it?”

Yes, a million fucking times yes. The can is cold in my grip. I want to express how I feel, but I’m not used to articulating any of this out loud. My guards scream no, my heart pleads yes.

And I end up saying, “You want a drink?”

He chews his gum slowly, our eyes not detaching. “Yeah.”

I go to take out my wallet.

“I’m buying my own,” he says casually, fishing out a couple bills from his leather wallet. “I can tell you something I’ve never shared with anyone.”

“I don’t want to force you—”

“I want to, Maximoff,” he says with the tilt of his head. Trying to assess my reaction.

My muscles start to unbind. “What about?”

He smiles and then talks while he feeds money into the machine. “My second week of rotations in the ER. It was a bad night, understaffed, and the only attending available was an ass. At one point, there was just him, a first-year intern, two nurses, and me. And a teenage girl comes in with a stab wound to the heart.” Farrow presses the regular Fizz button. “There was no time to rush her to the OR, and the doctor decides on an emergency thoracotomy.”

The machine dispenses a gold can.

He grabs the soda and then faces me. “I knew the girl had a two-percent chance of living, and so I hung onto the excitement of seeing a thoracotomy. It made it easier when the attending cracked her chest open…” Farrow shifts his weight, his nose flaring. But he keeps eye contact with me.

I listen closely. He’s never talked about any hard days during rotations before. Not like this.

He pops the tab of his soda. “The doctor sliced open the pericardial sac. It’s a thin sac around the heart. A lot of congealed blood poured out, and the first-year bailed.”

My brows knot. “He just left?”

“To puke,” Farrow says. “The rest of us tried to remove the blood out of the sac while the attending sewed the cut.” He pauses. “She died, and it wasn’t the first time I watched someone die in the hospital. But it was the first time an attending turned to me, said close her, speak to the parents and walked away.” Farrow winces at the memory. “That son of a bitch. I hadn’t even taken the retractors out of her chest when her mom…”

His chest collapses, shaking his head.

My stomach overturns. “That would’ve gutted me.”

His brows lift slowly. “It crushed me.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “The curse of having a photographic memory, I can’t get rid of her face or her wail.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. And I draw towards him.

He leans back on the Fizzle machine, but his lips inch up at me coming closer. He takes a swig of soda. “That’s the story that no one ever got but you.”

I appreciate it more than he’ll probably ever know. “Why me?”

“You’re a good listener,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. “And I have a thing for you.”

I lick my lips and feel my fucking smile.

“Just so you know,” he says huskily, “the thing you have for me is ten times bigger.”

I try to glare, but it’s difficult. “I have a tiny, fragmented thing for you. Thanks for asking.”

“You’re welcome, wolf scout.” He smiles into another swig.

I think I can speak. Find the words. Grab them. Say them. I breathe. “I’m afraid for my brother. I’m afraid this’ll happen again with a worse outcome, and I just want him to be okay.” I swallow. “What’s also getting to me is that today—it’ll stay with Kinney for the rest of her fucking life.” I crack my neck from side-to-side, my bones stiff.

“What about you?” Farrow asks, and off my confusion, he says, “It’ll stay with you too.”

“I can handle it.” I laugh at a thought. Of where we are. “I’m standing in a hotel vending area.”

Farrow frowns. “I’m not following.”

I take a rough breath. “So when I was twelve, I went to Disneyland, and back at the hotel, I left for a vending area.” I gesture to the machines. “Just like this. I slid down and just cried. My dad found me, hugged me, and that’s when I asked him if my mom was a sex addict. I’d heard rumors…and that’s where he said yes.” I look up at Farrow. “The memory is with me, but it’s not eating at me. The ones that hurt my family—those almost get to me.”

“Almost,” he repeats, studying my features.

I open and close one hand in a fist. My body tensing. I rotate my neck again. “I swear it’s like I have two switches: rage or off. Sometimes I’m programmed for automatic shutdown.”

“It’s a survival instinct,” he says.

I give him a look. “I thought you said I was desensitized to my own death.”

His barbell ratchets up with his brows. “Trust me, you are, but when other people are in danger, you have to survive to help them.” He adds, “Corpses don’t save people.”

“You’re right, they eat people.”

He rolls his eyes into a laugh. “You would take it to zombies.” His gaze practically brushes my cheekbones.

I step closer, my knee hits the machine, our legs threaded. I’m alright to be touched, and he sees. Swiftly, he holds my jaw and I clutch the back of his neck, our mouths a centimeter away. Hard chests pressing together.

Warmth spreads through my body. I breathe and breathe and fucking breathe. Kiss me.

“Hey—”

I instantly break apart from Farrow at Quinn’s voice.

He holds the empty duffel. “I thought you could use this to carry the drinks back.” He nods to the Fizzle machine behind Farrow. “I can help.”

“We have it,” Farrow says, his hand casually planted on my waist.

Quinn rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, so I actually wanted to ask you something alone.” He’s looking at me.

“Alright.” I swig my soda.

“I’ve been wondering if there’s anything else about Luna I should know.”

Once Luna flies back to Philly, her bodyguard has to fly back too. It’ll be the first time Quinn is away from Farrow while on-duty, for longer than a week.

And a couple days ago all the bodyguards bought Quinn a six-pack of beer, toasted to him, and said their goodbyes.

Quinn sets the duffel down. “The team said Luna’s normal day is reading and writing fan-fics, but you’re close to her. I figured you’d know more.”

I stare off for a second. Thinking about my sister. I saw the flying saucer tattooed on her ribs. Donnelly also permanently inked the lyrics Farrow scrawled on her forearm. She called that tattoo spontaneous.

I get that I’m a hardass, but I’m not a prude or her dad.

I’m her big brother. And I’m glad she did something that made her happy. If she could stay on tour longer, I’d let her in a fucking heartbeat.

I almost smile before I refocus my attention on Quinn. “Once she finishes homeschool, I think she’ll want to get out more.”

“Where?” Quinn asks.

“Concerts, coffee shops, bars, amusement parks, I don’t know,” I say honestly. “She’s just ready to experience life like a regular person.” Which is impossible. My gaze hardens at another thought. “She trusts people ten times more than Jane does, than I do. Just watch out for her.”

Quinn rubs his knuckles. “She’s eighteen. I have to listen to her if she wants to hang out with people that…”

“Shit on her,” I say.

“Yeah,” Quinn mutters.

“Be her friend, Oliveira,” Farrow chimes in. “Then she’ll listen to you.”

I give him a look. “Was that your plan with me?”

He rolls his eyes again. “Wolf scout, I didn’t need a plan with you. I wasn’t a green bodyguard.”

Quinn laughs. “Thanks.” He edges back. “I’ll leave you two…to it.” He also leaves the duffel on his way back to the room.

My mind reels. About fame and the bodyguards, the video leak. “Who do you think from my family or security shared the video?” I ask him since I’m all out of guesses. Any name that crops up seems like a colossal betrayal.

Farrow straightens, more serious.

I read his gaze pretty well. “Do you know who?”

“I have a good guess.” His jaw tics. “My father.”

I blink a few times, processing. Dr. Keene’s number was a part of the text thread. He’s grouped in the circle of trust. And he’s been acting desperate to get Farrow to quit security.

“So he gets you famous,” I say, “and you get fired.” I’m rigid, my joints needing oiled. I stretch my arm over my chest. “I’ll tell security to look into it.”

“I already did. My father is denying, and there’s no proof.” Farrow combs a hand through his hair. “And his leak didn’t work. Now I’m famous and still a bodyguard. I wonder what else he has up his sleeve.” His eyes hit mine, and the insinuation is obvious.

“Your father isn’t stalking me,” I almost growl. Christ, even saying that sounds soap-opera-level fucked-up.

“He could be. It makes the most sense.” His voice fades as chatter, laughter, and footsteps echo down the hall. Probably from hotel guests, but we drop the topic and start buying drinks for everyone. Shelving theories about the leaker and the stalker for now.