2: the difference between dying for someone and staying alive beside them.
Later, when the chaos of apologies and explanations settles, I find Bastian alone in the bedroom.
He’s leaning heavily against the dresser, one hand pressed to his bandaged abdomen, the other gripping the edge of the nightstand like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
I approach slowly and stop close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. I can still smell wintergreen beneath the antiseptic and dried blood. “I don’t know how to thank you,” I begin without preamble. “Or even if I should. You refuse to stay dead no matter how many times the world tries to kill you. I didn’t know that was something to be grateful for, but—well, here we are.”
Bastian’s hand grazes my cheek. It’s rough, calloused, and faintly trembling. His thumb brushes away a tear. “Your mother saved my life,” he explains.
“You said that,” I remind him. “That she stitched you up.”
“Not that,” he says. “Well, yes, that. But notjustthat. She said something to me. Something that finally broke through my thick skull.”
“What?”
“That anyone can die for someone.” His forehead drops to mine, and I feel the shudder that runs through him. “But living for them… that’s the hard part.”
My breath catches.
“I’m done dying for you, Eliana,” he swears. “From now on, I’m going to try living instead.”
I rise up on my toes, mindful of the bandages beneath his shirt, and press my lips to his. The kiss is gentle. It’s careful of his wounds, wary of everything we’ve broken and are trying to piece back together. But it’s alsocertainin a way I haven’t allowed myself to be since the night I ran from that alley.
When I pull back, my lips brush his as I whisper, “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Bastian doesn’t let me go far. His arms come around me and keep me close to him. His chin rests on top of my head, and for a while, we just breathe together. In and out, in and out. It’s like we’re reminding each other of how it is to just share space.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur against his chest.
“Blood loss,” he explains. “And maybe relief. Who’s to say?”
His laugh is weak, more of a wheeze than anything, but it’s real. I’ve missed the sound of it. I’ve missed so many things about him.
My hand drifts to his side and finds the edge of the bandages through his shirt. “Does it hurt?” I ask.
“Like a motherfucker,” he admits.
“Too much?”
I feel his frown. “Too much for what?”
I can’t stop a shy, sly, heated grin from drifting across my face. “Fulfilling promises.”
“Eliana…”
“Close the door,” I tell him.
Bastian hesitates. His hand drops from my face. “Eliana, you don’t have to?—”
“I’m not leaving this room tonight.” I reach out and curl my fingers in the fabric of his shirt. “And neither are you. You made me a promise, Bastian. You said when you came back from meeting Harold, you wanted to hear me say all those things I was saying in my sleep. But this time, awake. To your face. With no dreams to hide behind. Does that sound familiar?”
“I remember,” he says roughly.
“Good.” I release his shirt and step back. “Because I meant what I said. I’m holding you to it.Allof it.”
For a painful few seconds, nothing happens, and I feel the sting of rejection.
Then I hear him move. The door closes. The lock clicks into place.
