I grab a small T-shirt, a pair of cotton pajama bottoms, and all of my brand-new underthings, and slip out of the room. The lights immediately switch off as soon as I’m back in the bedroom, and I hit the button to close the panel.

I look around his bedroom with new eyes, reacclimating to this smaller, standard sort of space. Warner’s bedroom looks almost identical to the one I occupied while on base, and I always wondered why. There are no personal effects anywhere; no pictures, no odd knickknacks.

But suddenly it all makes sense.

His bedroom doesn’t mean anything to him. It’s little more than a place to sleep. But his closet—that was his style, his design. It’s probably the only space he cares about in this room.

It makes me wonder what the inside of his office looks like, and my eyes dart to his door before I remember how he’s locked himself inside.

I stifle a sigh and head toward the bathroom, planning to shower, change, and fall asleep immediately. This day felt more like a few years, and I’m ready to be done with it. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll be able to head back to Omega Point and finally make some progress.

But no matter what happens next, and no matter what we discover, I’m determined to find my way to Anderson, even if I have to go alone.

NINE

I can’t scream.

My lungs won’t expand. My breaths keep coming in short gasps. My chest feels too tight and my throat is closing up and I’m trying to shout and I can’t, I can’t stop wheezing, thrashing my arms and trying desperately to breathe but the effort is futile. No one can hear me. No one will ever know that I’m dying, that there’s a hole in my chest filling with blood and pain and such unbearable agony and there’s so much of it, so much blood, hot and pooling around me and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t breathe—

“Juliette—Juliette, love, wake up—wake up—”

I jerk up so quickly I double over. I’m heaving in deep, harsh, gasping breaths, so overcome, so relieved to be able to get oxygen into my lungs that I can’t speak, can’t do anything but try to inhale as much as possible. My whole body is shaking, my skin is clammy, going from hot to cold too quickly. I can’t steady myself, can’t stop the silent tears, can’t shake the nightmare, can’t shake the memory.

I can’t stop gasping for air.

Warner’s hands cup my face. The warmth of his skin helps calm me somehow, and I finally feel my heart rate begin to slow. “Look at me,” he says.

I force myself to meet his eyes, shaking as I catch my breath.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, still holding my cheeks. “It was just a bad dream. Try closing your mouth,” he says, “and breathing through your nose.” He nods. “There you go. Easy. You’re okay.” His voice is so soft, so melodic, so inexplicably tender.

I can’t look away from his eyes. I’m afraid to blink, afraid to be pulled back into my nightmare.

“I won’t let go until you’re ready,” he tells me. “Don’t worry. Take your time.”

I close my eyes. I feel my heart slow to a normal beat. My muscles begin to unclench, my hands steady their tremble. And even though I’m not actively crying, I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face. But then something in my body breaks, crumples from the inside, and I’m suddenly so exhausted I can no longer hold myself up.

Somehow, Warner seems to understand.

He helps me sit back on the bed, pulls the blankets up around my shoulders. I’m shivering, wiping away the last of my tears. Warner runs a hand over my hair. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “You’re okay.”

“Aren’t y-you going to sleep, too?” I stammer, wondering what time it is. I notice he’s still fully dressed.

“I . . . yes,” he says. Even in this dim light I can see the surprise in his eyes. “Eventually. I don’t often go to bed this early.”

“Oh.” I blink, breathing a little easier now. “What time is it?”

“Two o’clock in the morning.”

It’s my turn to be surprised. “Don’t we have to be up in a few hours?”

“Yes.” The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “But I’m almost never able to fall asleep when I should. I can’t seem to turn my mind off,” he says, grinning at me for only a moment longer before he turns to leave.

“Stay.”

The word escapes my lips even before I’ve had a chance to think it through. I’m not sure why I’ve said it. Maybe because it’s late and I’m still shaking, and maybe having him close might scare my nightmares away. Or maybe it’s because I’m weak and grieving and need a friend right now. I’m not sure. But there’s something about the darkness, the stillness of this hour, I think, that creates a language of its own. There’s a strange kind of freedom in the dark; a terrifying vulnerability we allow ourselves at exactly the wrong moment, tricked by the darkness into thinking it will keep our secrets. We forget that the blackness is not a blanket; we forget that the sun will soon rise. But in the moment, at least, we feel brave enough to say things we’d never say in the light.

Except for Warner, who doesn’t say a word.

For a split second he actually looks alarmed. He’s staring at me in silent terror, too stunned to speak, and I’m about to take it all back and hide under the covers when he catches my arm.

I still.

He tugs me forward until I’m nestled against his chest. His arms fall around me carefully, as if he’s telling me I can pull away, that he’ll understand, that it’s my choice. But I feel so safe, so warm, so devastatingly content that I can’t seem to come up with a single reason why I shouldn’t enjoy this moment. I press closer, hiding my face in the soft folds of his shirt, and his arms wrap more tightly around me, his chest rising and falling. My hands come up to rest against his stomach, the hard muscles tensed under my touch. My left hand slips around his ribs, up his back, and Warner freezes, his heart racing under my ear. My eyes fall closed just as I feel him try to inhale.

“Oh God,” he gasps. He jerks back, breaks away. “I can’t do this. I won’t survive it.”

“What?”

He’s already on his feet and I can only make out enough of his silhouette to see that he’s shaking. “I can’t keep doing this—”

“Warner—”

“I thought I could walk away the last time,” he says. “I thought I could let you go and hate you for it but I can’t. Because you make it so damn difficult,” he says. “Because you don’t play fair. You go and do something like get yourself shot,” he says, “and you ruin me in the process.”