I only got lost once on the way there. It was the middle of the night, after all, and Six’s apartment was tucked in the hollows of a dark street. He lived clear on the other side of Golden Gate Park, in Inner Richmond, an area that looked too nice to hock a loogie onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t the swankiest place, but it stood in sharp contrast to my dump of a neighborhood, and the plaster that regularly crumbled off my walls.

It was cold though, especially without the artificial warmth from street lights.

I didn’t know if Six would even let me in.

His flat took up the top half of the house, with one lone, sad tree in the front of it, relegated to a tiny patch of grass that looked out of place with all the concrete that surrounded it.

The entire top floor was dark, except for one small corner window. I tried to remember the layout of his apartment, but I hadn’t seen much beyond the main living area to know which part of the house that occupied.

The home beside his was covered in scaffolding across the front, and I was half tempted to climb up it and peek into Six’s windows. That’s what he’d expect from me. He wouldn’t expect me to knock on his door like a normal person.

I let myself into the entry of his home and climbed the creaky stairs to the top floor. There was a light flickering at the end of the hall and one lone door near the landing. The whole floor smelled of pancakes and my stomach growled. I’d never touched the plate of food Six had left for me at my apartment.

I raised my fist to knock and then was two seconds away from running down the stairs and out of the house. I shouldn’t be here. This was taking a big step for us both. I was here because I wanted to be with Six, knowing full well that he could turn me away. It was a reversal of how we’d been for the last year; Six always coming to my place, and me kicking him out.

Knock.

And I did.

My blood roared in my ears, like a billion horses. I waited. And waited. And the door remained shut.

I stepped back and looked at the floor under the door. There was a muted glow coming from beneath the door, and it was uninterrupted—which meant Six wasn’t standing on the other side, looking at me through the peephole.

He was probably already asleep. Maybe if I hadn’t gotten lost on the way, I’d have made it here in time. I knocked again, undeterred, mostly because I didn’t relish the idea of walking all the way back to my apartment in the dark. Six had a car to get around. I had two wobbly legs, so the fact that I’d made the trek to Richmond at all was impressive. That’s what I told myself.

The door didn’t open, and no shadow crossed underneath the door.

“Fuck.”

My legs were crying out for some kind of relief, so I sunk down to a cross-legged position and set my back against the wall beside his door. I dipped my fingers under the bottom of the door. There was a substantial gap there, enough for nearly my entire hand to fit. But that wouldn’t do me any good.

I sighed loudly and stretched my legs out. I was going to be here a while, at least until my legs didn’t feel like cooked spaghetti.

I lit a cigarette and closed the lighter lid, then opened it again and let the flame lick the air as I took the first puff. I loved how it reflected against the gold and rubbed my finger over all the small sparkles.

I was overly warm from the walk over to his flat and now being in his warm building, so I pulled off my sweatshirt and laid it on the ground beside me. When I realized I was without any suitable substitute for an ash tray, I carefully flicked my ashes onto the sleeve, hoping they wouldn’t burn a hole through it. I didn’t have an emotional attachment to the sweatshirt; it boasted some college—or, I assumed it was a college—I’d never heard of. But it was completely intact, without any holes or loose threads on the sleeves. Sweatshirts like that were hard to come by at the thrift store.

Under my ass I felt a rumble and barely had time to prepare myself when the door opened.

He was tired, I could tell. But still, he had that beautiful hardness that was so him. And his eyes were soft when he looked at me. When he just looked at me wordlessly, I said, “Hi.”

“It’s late.”

It wasn’t the greeting I expected, but I didn’t blame him for his surliness. “I’m sorry,” I told him.

“Are you?”

“I am. I’ve been here for practically an hour, waiting.”

“An hour?”

I nodded solemnly.

“It’s been fifteen minutes, tops.”

I blinked. “You heard me knocking? And you didn’t answer?”

“I wanted to see what you’d do. See if you’d give up.”

I nodded and then realized the end of my cigarette was almost burnt to the filter. I didn’t have any way to stab it out.

“Here,” Six said and plucked it from my hands before I could offer it to him. He leaned inside his flat and then his head reappeared. “So?”

Well, there went any hope that he was going to make this easy on me.

“I’m sure that wasn’t the welcome home you were expecting.”

“First of all, I don’t expect much from you.”

Ooof. That hit in the center of my chest.

“Because I can’t,” he continued. “You’re an enigma; a challenge. I don’t have expectations because you’re unpredictable.”

That softened the blow a little.

“But the few I do have include you, at the very least, taking care of yourself. That’s all I want from you, Mira.”

“For the moment,” I added. People always wanted more than I could give.

“I’m in this with you. I know you’re selfish, I know you’re reckless. I expect that. But I’d very much like to not have to force you to vomit up the garbage you regularly ingest. I don’t want to be your caretaker; I want to be your equal.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m fucking exhausted, and I don’t feel like doing this right now.”

We would never, not in any dimension, be equal. But I humored him anyway. “Okay.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “Is your plan to get up off that floor anytime soon?”

“It depends,” I said, swallowing the saliva that pooled in my mouth. I wasn’t done groveling yet. “On if you’re going to ask me to stay or tell me to go.”

“And if I tell you to go?”

“I’ll stay,” I said quickly and adamantly.

He lowered himself so we were eye level. I expected an absentminded touch, felt starved for it, so when he didn’t give it to me—with a hand over my hair, a kiss to the top of my head—I worried that he’d tell me to go. It’d be a long night in his hallway.

“And,” he began, eyes searching mine, “if I ask you to stay?”

I swallowed hard, and with my voice barely above a whisper, I murmured, “I’ll stay.”

“So, I have no choice either way.”

“No.”

“Okay.” He scooped me up into his arms, and my heart nearly killed itself for how quickly it thumped when he kicked the door shut behind him and carried me to his bed. “Get in. Go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I lifted the comforter and slid underneath it as he walked around the bed and did the same. When we were both nestled into the bed, I rolled onto my side, away from him. The mattress dipped behind me and he scooted up close to me. His lips touched my shoulder and then he said, “Goodnight, Mira.”

I didn’t know why, but moisture pricked behind my eyelids.

* * *

The next morning, we were sitting at his table, sharing bacon and eggs.

Silence still settled around us, but that was because Six was not a man of words; he was a man of action. I was an observer of human nature. I watched as he picked up my plate, as he always did, watched as he washed it in the sink. Watched his mouth in a line, his brow furrowed. His thoughts weren’t just on the dishes, I knew that.

I looked around his apartment, took in the boxes neatly stacked by the desk in his living room. The curtains were open, the light pouring in through his windows. His place was not just nicer than mine, it was sunnier too.

“Are you working on the Clay case again?”

“Yeah.” He didn't say anything else, and I thought it odd.

“You'd think the wife would get a clue and dump his ass for good.”

Six shrugged, shook his hands free of water. “Love changes us.” Slowly he turned his head to look at me, but I studiously avoided looking directly at him.

I sipped my water delicately and tried to think of what to say. My gaze fell upon the framed photo of Lydia and her daughter. What was her name? Cora.

“How’s Cora?”

Six’s gaze followed mine. “She’s fine.”

“We don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.”

“I’m not talking about her—you are.”

I gave him a strange smile. “I know. Sometimes it’d be nice to know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Only sometimes?”

“Yeah. When it works for my schedule.”

“I know you’re joking, but I don’t think you realize how true that is.”

“I know it is. I’m selfish. We’ve established that.”

“Right.”

We were both quiet then, each of us gauging the other.

This was it. The moment we talked about what happened the day before. I vaguely remembered asking him to tell me he loved me. It made me cringe. So needy, so whiny. Now that I was sober, I didn’t need him to tell me he loved me.

“Did you enjoy last night?”

His question caught me off guard. “Which part? The part where I snorted some coke and chased it with a pill, or the part where I groveled at your door?”

He winced at the memory. “You call that groveling?”

“It was groveling for me.”

“Hm.” He rubbed his chin. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Well, regardless, I didn’t enjoy either part. You ruined my high and then I walked ten miles here, in the cold.”

“Three miles.” He crossed his arms over his chest. He always did that when he was challenging me back. It strained the sleeves of his worn t-shirt, momentarily distracting me. “I’ve done the journey more than you have. It’s three miles.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got a car. I only have my gams.” I patted my thighs. “The mileage isn’t important.”

“Why did you come here, then?”

“Because…” I wasn’t sure if I’d answered that for myself. “I guess, you’re always the one coming to me. About time I returned the favor.”

“Oh, so it was about returning a favor?”

I ground my teeth. “Okay, fine. I knew I’d fucked up. I wanted to apologize.”

“To grovel,” he said, throwing my words back at me.

“Right. To grovel.”

“Do you regret what you did?”

“You’re not doing this psychoanalyzing shit on me, right?” I looked around his small breakfast nook. “There’s no couch for me to lie across, no box of tissues to mop up my face with when we get down to the root of why I’m so terribly fucked up.”

“Mira, you’re exhausting.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. I stood. “Cool, because I can leave.”

He stood in my way when I moved toward the door. “You’re not wearing shoes. Or a coat. Sit down, we’re just talking.”

But I didn’t like talking when I was losing. And in that moment, I was. Six wanted to know my feelings. It made me shudder. Feelings were not on the breakfast menu this morning, not for me.

“I don’t want to sit down. I want to say sorry, and I want to move on. Okay?”

“Not okay.” He shook his head. “I want to know. Why are you sorry? Do you regret what happened, or do you regret how it made me feel?”

“Why are you crowding me?” I backed up, looking for an escape.

“Because.” He reached a hand for me, but I ducked away from it. “I want to find out how you feel. About everything.”

“Why?”

“Because.” He exhaled loudly and stepped toward me. “Because I…”

I knew my eyes went large, wild, like a feral animal. I wasn’t ready for the words. I’d needed to get drunk when I’d wanted to hear them. Sober—no. I couldn’t do it.

I ducked around him again, but he was quicker, gently but firmly pressing my back against the wall. He let go when his body blocked me and for the first time, Six made me feel fear. Not fear for what he could do to me—it was far too late for that. But fear for what I could do to him. I was not meant for cages.

I pushed against him, hands spread on his chest. But he didn’t budge. “Jesus, can you give me some space?”

“That’s all I’ve done for the last goddamn year, Mira. Give you space. Enough space for you to run away from me, to shut me out, to do things you know will hurt me.”

The last bit took my breath away, and I sucked in air like the world was running out of it. “And you think caging me in is going to stop me from hurting you?”

“I’m hoping you’ll care enough not to.”

I’d lost the battle. I knew that. I was facing the inevitable, but still, I wanted to put up a fight. It wasn’t in me to roll over.

“Back. Up,” I said firmly, and to illustrate, I put my hands on the hardest part of his chest and pressed with all my weight.

I couldn’t miss the wince on his face as he stepped back from me. I knew my strength wasn’t enough to move him. There was something else.

My hands curled into fists and suddenly, I had a vision of beating on him with everything I had in me. “Fuck.” I ripped up his shirt. “Six,” I breathed.

Along his pecs and collarbone were dozens of dark, angry bruises.

“I did this.” It made my stomach roll.

He clasped my hands and held them still. “You were high.”

“It’s not an excuse.” I was horrified. I had hurt others many times, but I’d never cared for a single one of them like I cared for Six.

“You’re right. It’s not an excuse.” He pulled our linked hands from his chest. “And you can’t keep doing it, Mira.”

“I’m sorry.” And I was. “I hurt you.”

“Yeah, you did. But not with your fists.” He gripped my face in his hands, forced me to stare at him when he knew I’d turn away. “What you did last night—you can’t keep doing that. I won’t sit around while you snort God knows what. I won’t sit here while you get high.” I watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat when he swallowed. “I won’t be here, Mira.”

Sweat prickled my brow. This was a choice, right here. Six was making me choose the drugs, or him. “It’s not easy.”

“I’m not saying it is. But you’re not easy either, and I’m still here.” His hands slid to my shoulders. “But if you don’t make an effort, Mira, I won’t be here.”

Fuck. My mouth watered, and goose bumps prickled my arms with fear. I wasn’t sure what I was more afraid of—getting off the drugs or Six leaving me for good. The fact that I couldn’t decide told me enough. “I don’t want you to leave.” Tears burned my eyes and I dug my nails into him. “Please, don’t leave me.”

“God, I don’t want to.” His voice was hoarse. “But you need to choose. I can’t do this year after year with you. I know you love the drugs—”

“I don’t love them.” I enjoyed them, no doubt about that. But drugs couldn’t sustain me, and it was impossible to love something that wasn’t consistent when you were as inconsistent as I was.

“How do you know?”

“I’m not in love with drugs. Because I fight for the things I love.”

It was the most honest thing I'd ever said; a realization. My heart tumbled in my chest, and I nearly reached up to catch it.

“So, you fight for love?” his voice was even softer, and I was overcome by the sudden stillness that existed in this space between us.

Yes. “I don't know.” I turned to look away, but Six grasped my chin. He wasn't letting me look away, not now, not when my thoughts had tumbled out of my mouth and rendered me transparent.

“Move in with me,” he said. It wasn't a question.

I shook my head. One full year with Six showed me that if there was anything stable between us, it was our very inconsistency. And how fucked up was that? “No way.” I tried to pull my chin away, but he held it firm, bringing a hand up to my neck.

“Why not?”

“Because it'll be bad.”

“For whom?”

I knew he could see where I was going with this, and I was pissed he was making me even say it. “For us.” Ugh, the word 'us' still made me equal parts nauseated and exhilarated.

“You think moving in together will be bad for us?”

I nodded impatiently and tried to shake my chin from his grasp with no success.

“Do you think we'll break up?” he asked. He looked at me so softly and wouldn’t let me look away from it. It was causing all kinds of flutters in my chest.

I nodded once more, feeling a well of panic overflow into my throat.

“Do you want this? Me?” He swallowed. “Will you fight for us?”

I swallowed, hoping to reduce the swell that was climbing up my throat. But it persisted. So, I nodded, unable to speak.

“Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

I bit my tongue hard enough to make it bleed, but his eyes practically glowed in the morning light, the honest light.

“I'll do it,” I said under my breath.

“Not very convincing.” His hands moved to my shoulders and I wished he would stop holding me, as raw as I was, because I was certain that I would crumble to pieces in his hands. “Convince me.”

“I'll fight.”

“For who?”

My eyes burned, and I set my jaw. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be honest, Mira. I want you to tell me what you're going to do about you and me. About us.” His hands squeezed and even though his voice was calm and even-keel, there was an intensity to it that made me ache with the words I had such a hard time admitting. “I know that word makes you itchy.” He drew my fingers away from itching at my skin.

I closed my eyes to help the burning and his hands slid up to cup my face. Why did he have to hold me like this? Like he could do it all day, like it was so damned easy for him.

“You can be honest with me. I'm not going anywhere.”

It was like he could see exactly what I needed to hear. “I said I’d do it.”

“Do wh—”

Before he could finish his sentence, I screamed, “I'll fight for us!” I was pissed he was forcing me to say this. Pissed I had to be as raw as I was. Pissed that he’d sunk his hooks in this deep.

“Good.” His voice remained calm, even, but in his eyes, I saw intensity building with the rise of my heartrate.

“Relationships are stupid.” My voice sounded much calmer than I was.

“No truer words were ever spoken, my sweet, seething sea witch.”

“I'm not a witch,” I argued. “I'm Mira. I’m a mess, and you’re the first person who has come along and not defined me by my mess.” I pressed a hand to my clammy forehead. “I’m going to be sick.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I need help.” That H word was worse than any creative swears I could come up with. “But not with any doctors. I don’t want medication shoved down my throat. I don’t want that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with medication, you know that, right?”

“I know that. But I still don’t want it. I’ve been on so many drugs that I’ve lost count—prescription and not. I don’t want to put anything else in my mouth, anything that might fuck with my head more than I know how to handle.” I looked up at him and blinked away the moisture. “My mom paraded me in and out of facilities growing up, so much that I can’t trust it. I know there are probably legitimate people, but…” I heaved a deep sigh. “I don’t want to go through that. Not without exhausting all the options.”

“Like running?”

“Exactly.”

“Did you run while I was gone?”

No point in lying to him. “No.”

“We’ll have to figure something out for that then.”

“We.” I rubbed my head and he pulled my hand away, kissed the center of my palm.

“Yeah, we. We can do this, together. Do what you need to do.” He pressed another kiss. “Move in with me.”

I shook my head. “You can’t be my rock, Six. Because if something happens, if we break—”

He pressed his fingers against my lips to silent me, but I yanked his hand away.

“No, I need to say this. If we break up, I can’t be left to tread water alone. If you’re what’s keeping me afloat—and if you leave—it’ll be bad. I know it will.” My words were flooding in, almost faster than I could spit them out. “I know, I know, Six. I’ll drown.”

He opened his mouth and this time, I covered it with my hand.

“Don’t promise me an infinity, Six. Promises can be broken. Words mean little.”

He stepped closer and his mouth opened. His eyes and his hold on me was tender. And I knew, I fucking knew where this was about to go. “Not if the words are honest.”

The look in his eyes communicated exactly what words he wanted to say. It made my heart skip at least a few beats, shocking me enough that my fist closed over my chest. “Shut up. No,” I said, my eyebrows soaring high along with my voice. “Don’t say those words.”

“Why not?”

“You’re pushing me.” I tried to get out of his hold. I hated being on the defensive.

He shook his head and his eyes glittered. “I have to.” His hand moved to curl around my neck. “You push me, too.” He squeezed softly.

“If I don't, you'll back me into a wall.” I narrowed my eyes, feeling a snarl curl my lip, as I tilted my head back and pointedly looked at the wall.

“Maybe you'll admit how you feel if you have nowhere to run.”

I leaned against him, pushing, taking the offensive. “You want to know how I fucking feel?” I asked, my voice higher than I expected. My finger pressed into his chest. “I feel a hundred things, all at once. I feel pain, I feel content, I feel ill, I feel hate, I feel—”

He closed his palm over my lips, silencing me just as my voice was rising to an octave that I didn't even recognize. “I love you, Mira.”

Five full heartbeats in my chest, two exhalations against his hand, and one 'I love you' suspended between us.

He loves me.

He loves me.

I love him.

Slowly, I registered my hand coming up and clasping his, tugging it from my mouth.

But I said nothing, holding his hand in mine. Green eyes shifted, searched. He didn't tell me he loved me to get me to say it in return. His love wasn't selfish like mine. His was a gift, willingly given. Mine was purged from my soul, ripping itself from me involuntarily like I was exorcising a demon.

I realized then that Six chose to love me; I didn't choose to love him. But love him I did, even if I didn't want to.

I expected him to press me, to get me to say how I felt. But he didn't.

When I said nothing, he released my chin, satisfied.

I told myself I was saying this because he knew already, but the truth was that I couldn't swallow the words every time they materialized on my tongue anymore. They scratched my throat each time I tried to push them down, protesting their imposed silence. I couldn't cut and bleed them out, no—their power wasn't something I could let go of that easily.

“I love you.”

It'd been one year, a big year. He may have known all along but hearing the words from my lips seemed transformative for him. His entire face smoothed, lightened. He came closer and my lips met his.

For the first time in so long, I felt calm. My fingers and my legs and my thoughts all quieted, and he gave. He gave every bit of himself in that kiss. He gave me what words didn't have the power to; he gave me love.

I didn't cry, but I nearly wanted to.

He pulled back and pressed his forehead to mine. “Fight for it,” he said. “It's good for you, Mira.”

My skin itched. The way he was looking at me, the release of the emotion, all of it was overwhelming. I couldn't live under his gaze. “I’m going to throw up,” I said again, feeling the roll of my stomach among the unfamiliar emotions that were swallowing me whole.

“You won’t. Fight it.”

“I'm a fighter,” I said, not quite believing it.

“As long as you're fighting, you're living.” It reminded me of how reckless I'd been with my life when I'd met him. Six had made me a fighter, and I wasn't just talking about training my body. I was fighting all the time; for my sanity, for Six.

“Fight,” he said, pulling me from the memories of years earlier.

Nine years later, I'd get the word tattooed on my chest.