I stand there long enough, but Dalton doesn't rush me. He just waits, hands in his pockets, looking at the same trees, and I let myself feel the distance for one more moment before I put it somewhere I can carry it.
Chapter three
Alex
I hold it together all day.
Through Tomlinson and his honest eyes and the thing he said about breathing. Through Becky and her friendly questions and the smile with the agenda underneath it. Through the stares in the main building and the gym and the dining hall, all those bodies clocking me wrong without knowing why, all that weight of being watched and not being able to say anything or do anything about it.
I hold it together through all of it.
Then Dalton opens the cottage door and the lamp is on and the room is exactly as we left it and I walk in and something just goes.
"I don't have any clothes," I say.
Dalton looks at me.
"I have what was in that bag." I look at the bag, still on the floor where I left it this morning. "That's it. That's everything. And tomorrow I have to walk back into that building and everyone is going to stare at me again and I have nothing to wear that isn't—" I stop. "I've been in red or grey for years and now there's no uniform and I have nothing and everyone was watching me all day like I'm a freak that got out of a cage and I don't—"
I stop.
Dalton hasn't moved. He's standing near the door with his jacket still on and his eyes on my face, not trying to stop me or redirect me, just watching, the way he watches things he's taking the full measure of.
"I want to go home," I say. Quiet. "I want Leo. I want Gray. I want Jake and Jim and I want—" My throat does the thing. "I want RJ to not be at rock bottom in a room I can't get to."
Dalton crosses to me.
He puts his hands on my face, tilts it up, looks at me — directly, no distance, just Dalton with his thumbs on my jaw and his eyes on mine.
"Feel me," he says. Low. Not a question.
I breathe.
"Right now," he says. "Feel me."
The bond runs warm where his hands touch my skin, the heat of it spreading up my jaw and into my chest, and I breathe again and feel him — solid weight, his scent close, the bond running certain and here.
"You don't get to fall apart without me," he says.
"I'm not falling apart," I say.
"Mmmhmm." His thumbs move slightly on my jaw. "And I'm right here."
I look at him. What's in his eyes isn't the careful professional thing — it's been building since the yard and the common room and all the nights since.
I close the distance.
He meets me before I get there.
His mouth is certain, no hesitation, his hands sliding from my jaw into my hair, and the bond blazes up my wrist immediately — heat and want and the relief of being kissed by someone who knows exactly what they want. I grab the front of his jacket and pull and he makes a low sound against my mouth and walks me backward until my back meets the wall.
"Here," he says. Against my lips. "Not going anywhere."
"Yes," I say.
He pulls back just enough to look at me — checking, making sure I'm here and not in my head. I pull him back and he comes, his body against mine, his hands moving to my waist and sliding under the hem of my shirt, his palms flat against my skin.
"Cold," I manage.
