Tristan couldn’t stay away.

He spent the night dreaming about Helena, locked in her tower and guarded by a vicious dragon. He rose at dawn and leaped to his computer, sending her an email to make sure she was all right.

The email went unanswered.

He sent one every day for the rest of the week, but received nothing in return.

By Friday he could no longer cope, so he climbed the tower once more, but the window was locked. He tapped on the glass, searching for Helena. He was close to giving up when she shuffled into the room, her long hair masking her face. She closed the door behind her and he tapped again.

White-blonde hair floated out around her as she spun. Her puffy red eyes rounded, her soft lips parting as she rushed for the window.

“Let me in,” he said softly, not wanting to awaken the dragon.

“I can’t.” Her voice wobbled. “She bolted it shut.” Helena ran her hands over the frame. He craned his head and spotted the metal bracket locking the window in place.

“You should go. I don’t want her to catch you.” Helena’s chin bunched and quivered.

Tristan pressed his hand against the glass. With a watery smile, Helena reached for it, pressing her palm against the pane so their fingers were aligned.

“This can’t be over. I’ve emailed you every day. Why won’t you reply?”

Her expression crumpled, her lips pressing into a tight line before she sucked in a breath and admitted, “She’s blocked my account. She’s deleted everything. I can’t even access the Internet anymore.”

Anger tore through Tristan’s center. “She can’t do that,” he growled.

“She has.” Helena’s shoulders slumped, her index finger squeaking on the window as she bent it. “The ban may lift eventually, but I was sneaking a boy into the house and she’s just trying to protect me. Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Don’t say that,” Tristan huffed. “We didn’t do anything wrong! It’s not fair. She can’t just end us like this.”

“She can.”

“Not if you don’t let her.” He stared at the glass, trying to catch her eye and make her see the truth, but Helena refused to look at him. Her hair draped over her face as she dipped her head and sniffed.

“You should go, Tristan. I’m okay. I have our memories.”

He thumped the window with the side of his fist. “That’s not enough.”

“It’s all we have.” She drew her hand away from the glass and gave him one final glance, her green eyes awash with tears. “They’ll be enough.” She nodded, stepping away from the window.

“No, wait! Helena, please!”

She shook her head, backing towards the door until she walked into it. Her desperate gaze never left his until she’d managed to turn the handle and spin out of the attic.

Tristan’s last glimpse of her was her pale golden locks flying behind her as she sped down the stairs.

He had no choice but to climb down the tower and walk home.

Snatching his bag off the back steps, he shouldered the kitchen door open and stepped inside. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes and he could see clothes spewing out of the laundry room door. The faint sound of a ball game was coming from the living room.

Tristan’s shoulders drooped, the energy draining out of him completely.

“Hey, buddy.” His dad sauntered into the kitchen, an easy smile on his face. “Yankees are up three nothing against the Sox with two innings to go. Looks like we’ll cream ’em again.” His chuckle was gleeful and irritating.

Pulling open the fridge, he grabbed a beer and popped the top, rubbing his thumb over the condensation with a grin.

“I take it you’re going to watch the rest of the game, then?” Tristan rested his butt against the counter and pressed his palms so hard into the ridge that dents started forming in his skin.

His father shot him an incredulous look. “Of course. Want to join me?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed, his lips bunching into a tight line. “I can’t. I’ve got dishes to do and laundry to clean and dinner to cook! It’s not like you’re going to do it, right?”

Leon lowered his can, looking at his son like he’d just grown two horns. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Tristan flicked his hand in the air and then scratched his forehead with a frown. “I’m just tired,” he mumbled, pushing off the counter and storming from the room. Shooting a dark glare at the TV, he raced up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door.

His father didn’t follow him. There was no gentle knock or humble words of apology.

The doorbell rang about forty minutes after Tristan had flopped onto his bed, and then the smell of pepperoni pizza wafted up the stairs. His stomach grumbled, forcing him off the bed. Slumping down the stairs, he flopped onto the couch, snatching a napkin and a large slice.

They ate in silence, not looking at each other. His father’s gaze flicked his way a couple of times, but every time Tristan looked up, his father jerked back toward the screen, shuffling in his seat and clearing his throat.

Tristan rolled his eyes, a deep yearning for Helena causing knots in his stomach and a painful bleed in his chest.