Eating together is a tradition we’re not willing to break, and only did a few times as of recent when our world was fucked and never want to do it again. It’s something we promised each other as we grew, that no matter how fucked our world might be at times, no matter the wild, the trouble we’re facing, be it town drama or our own, the last meal of the day we’d spend together. At the end of the day it’s a good way to refresh our memories, in case we ever forget—if nothing else, we’ll always have each other.

Family by choice.

A reminder we bleed like everyone else, even if our world sets us apart from others our age.

I guess Brielle’s little mobster joke was semi on point.

I push my food aside, lying back on the shitty bed and flat pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

Mobster and musketeers.

The girl thinks she’s educated when it comes to our world.

I’m thinking not.

But why the fuck am I thinking of the brat to begin with?

Maybe I do need to go home.

As I think it, a nauseating need for a crowd creeps in, screaming for me to make my way toward others, the suffocating sense of how I’m sittin’ solo in this box of a room weighing next, but I force that bitch back.

I just said I was fine, and I am. I brought myself here. Told Mac to leave me here. I’m good.

I’m good.

I trace the crown molding on the ceiling, trying to focus on the overlapping paint and chipped corners, but my eyes pull toward the clock, and then to the silver key sitting beside it.

Fuck it.

I push to my feet, slip a black hoodie on and I’m out the door.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t sit in a locked-up room full of shrieking silence, so I hop in the weak-ass car and off I go.

By the time I realize where I’m headed, I’m already there.

Parked right outside of Brielle’s aunt’s house.

The house is dark, so I’m ready to keep rolling, but then I spy a splash of silver.

What the fuck?

I hop out and stomp my ass across the yard, and sure as shit, there she is, slumped over one of those things stacked at the backs of every grocery store, still in her school uniform.

My muscles flex as I approach, but it doesn’t take long to realize she’s breathing, and frustration follows.

Irrational irritation flares in my gut. “Wake up.”

Brielle’s head pops up, her hair covering half her face as she manically whips her upper body from left to right.

In a fucking frenzy, she swipes the silver strands from her face, squeezing her eyes closed as tight as possible.

“Come on, come on, come on,” she whispers, her hands coming up to shield her, her fingers gently tapping at her lids.

“Hate to break it to you, little Bishop, but if you’re trying to wake yourself up... you ain’t sleepin’.”

Every muscle in her tiny body locks, her fingers spreading just enough to allow her to meet my gaze through the gap.

Her shoulders fall with her hands as if I wasn’t the cause of her little trip out just now, a frown quickly following.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses.

“Fuck are you doing out here?” I crouch down beside her, my elbows on my knees.

Her fingers come up to cover her yawn. “What time is it?”

My jaw tics. “Why you outside, in the fuckin’ dark, alone?”

Now she glares. “Stop answering my questions with a question.”

“Stop askin’ questions and answer mine.”

“Oh my god.” She shakes her head with a huff.

“The hell are you doing sleeping on a fucking box outside at nine at night?”

There. I gave her the time.

Consider me fucking kind.

“I was...” She trails off, spotting her books sitting beside her, and it’s as if a little light bulb flicks on.

“I was doing homework.” She nods, trying to convince herself. “I guess I fell asleep.”

I focus on the stack of shit at her side.

“Right.” I lick my lips, my eyes flicking to hers. “You finished your work, put it all together like a good little student would, set it down all nice and fuckin’ neat, and forgot to stand up and go inside?”

A crease forms along her forehead. “I was looking for Ursa Minor?”

My head tugs back. “Ursa what?”

“Star gazing?”

Slowly, one of my brows kicks up. “That a question?”

She pinches her mouth to the side.

I glance at the house, not a light left on as far as I can tell.

I push to my feet. “Get up.”

“Royce.”

I grab her things off the grass, stuffing it in her bag, and stare down at her, still sitting Indian style on the ground.

“Up.”

“I’m good here, thanks,” she says, but her lips are pulled in tight.

“On five, I’m carrying you into that house.”

She scoffs, but the longer she looks at me, the more uneasy she grows.

I knew something was fucked-up here.

I’ll give her a chance to tell me what it is.

“Why are you out here?”

She focuses on her bag in my hand.

I fling it over my shoulder, bend, and scoop her ass up.

Her eyes are wide and on me, leaving her no choice but to hold on tight.

“One.”

“Royce—”

“Two.”

“Don’t—”

“Five.”

I’m up the steps, my hand planted on the handle when hers flies out to cover mine, the heat of her palm freezing me on the spot.

My eyes slice to hers.

The muscles in my stomach coil over, and my arms stiffen around her.

She stares up at me, eyes a darkened, tortured turquoise, silently begging me to let go, turn the fuck around and walk back down.

This girl, she doesn’t know me.

I don’t know her.

So how the fuck do I know what she wants?

And even more warped, how does she know that I do?

She proves it by drawing her hand away, the cool night air replacing it as the breeze rolls over my knuckles.

I let go of the damn doorknob, but not her eyes.

I hold them with a heavy frown as I make my way across the grass, bypassing the spot I grabbed her from, and not stopping until we reach the car. I let her legs drop, lowering her feet to the ground and reach by her to tug on the door.

Something’s on the tip of her tongue, an attempt to argue maybe, but instead, she lets go, slides into the seat and stares straight ahead.

I close her in, taking slow as shit steps around the car too... I don’t even fuckin’ know why.

But it sure as hell seems necessary.

That alone should have me kicking her ass out of the car.

Instead, I slide inside it and take us to the first place I can find that’s still open—a small townie diner.

We’ve been here for twenty minutes now and for the last fifteen, she’s pretended not to be watching me from her corner of the booth while I’ve been purposely ignoring the fact that she is, straight focused on my fries and chocolate shake.

Her dramatic huff and hard smack of the spoon on the tabletop does what she wants, though.

I turn my head toward her. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I was outside?”