Like those words could protect him from bullets and knives and the monsters who traffic children.
I press my face into his pillow, breathe him in.
He'll come back.
He promised.
Gunnar doesn't break promises, but people die every day.
Good people.
People who made promises they fully intended to keep.
Stop.
Stop thinking like that.
I grab my phone, check it again.
Nothing.
No texts.
No calls.
No news is good news.
Right?
I force myself out of bed, pace the small room.
His clothes are still draped over the chair in the corner—the jeans he wore yesterday, a t-shirt that's soft from too many washes.
Boots by the door, scuffed and worn.
Bike parts scattered across the dresser like he was in the middle of fixing something and got distracted.
Evidence of his life, his existence, his presence in this space.
What happens to a room when the person who lived in it doesn't come back?
Stop.
I can't think like that.
I won't.
I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
Maybe I should text him.
Just something simple.
Something to let him know I'm thinking about him.
But what if he's in the middle of something dangerous?
