"Then what are you trying to do?" The question hung between us, loaded with history and hurt I was only beginning to understand.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, to hold it despite the urge to look away. "I'm trying to be your friend. Your partner. Someone you can trust with the truth, even when it's ugly."
His breath caught, just slightly. "Why?"
"Because you matter," I said simply. "Not just for what you can do for us. For you. Kearan."
For a long moment, he just stared at me, like he was waiting for the punchline to a joke he didn't understand. Then, slowly, he turned his hand in my grip until our palms pressed together, his fingers threading through mine.
"I'll try," he said finally, the words clearly costing him. "To be more... careful. With myself."
It wasn't a promise. It wasn't even close to enough. But it was a start.
I squeezed his hand gently. "Good. That's... good."
We sat there in silence for a moment, the night air cool against my skin, Kearan's hand warm in mine. Not perfect. Not fixed. But maybe, for the first time, facing in the same direction.
CHAPTER 22
WILL YOU TELL ME ABOUT THE SCAR?
Sleep refused to claim me at 2 AM, my mind churning with the day's revelations and the lingering sensation of newly realized power under my skin. I slipped from my bed, bare feet silent against the cool floor, and padded toward the kitchen for water, tea, alcohol… anything to quiet the thoughts that wouldn't stop screaming. The hallway stretched dark and silent before me, but a faint sliver of light leaked from beneath the kitchen door. Someone else fighting their demons tonight. I pushed the door open and found Kearan standing at the counter, completely still, his back to the door. Not cooking. Not drinking. Just existing in the half-dark like a ghost caught between worlds.
He didn't startle when I entered, didn't turn. His shoulders rose and fell with each deliberate breath, the rhythm too controlled to be natural. The only light came from the small fixture above the sink, casting him in silhouette, hollowing out the spaces beneath his shoulder blades. He wore a thin gray t-shirt that hung loose on his frame, revealing the hard edges of a body that carried too much and ate too little.
I reached for the main light switch, hesitated for a second, then flipped it on.
Light flooded the kitchen, harsh and unforgiving. Kearan blinked against the sudden brightness but didn't flinch away from it. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. His skin looked waxy, almost translucent in places, the aftermath of whatever he'd absorbed from Trux still working its way through his system.
"Sorry," I said, not entirely sure what I was apologizing for. The light… The fact that I'd seen him in this state. All of it, maybe.
He shook his head, a barely perceptible movement. "Don't be."
I crossed to the small table tucked in the corner of the kitchen and pulled out a chair. The legs scraped against the linoleum, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. I sat down and waited.
For what, I wasn't sure. For him to leave, maybe. To retreat back into the careful distance he maintained between himself and everyone else. To pull on that mask of controlled indifference that kept the world at arm's length.
Instead, he turned from the counter, his movements slow and deliberate, like each required conscious thought. He lowered himself into the chair across from me, his eyes never quite meeting mine.
We sat in silence. I didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Just existed in the same space, breathing the same air, letting the quiet stretch between us like something tangible.
Minutes passed. The refrigerator hummed. A clock ticked somewhere down the hall.
"I don't sleep much," Kearan finally said, his voice low enough that I had to lean forward slightly to catch the words. "Not since I was a child."
The admission hung in the air between us, simple and devastating. Something fragile unfurled in my chest… not quite hope, but adjacent to it. Like watching a door open a crack after years of being sealed shut.
"I used to think it was the price," he continued, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the tabletop. "For what I can do. A cosmic balance. Power for peace."
I kept my body perfectly still, afraid that any sudden movement might break whatever spell had loosened his tongue.
"I was wrong," he said. "It's not a price. It's a feature. The healing... it changes my nervous system. Makes it more sensitive. More receptive." His eyes focused on some middle distance beyond my shoulder. "I feel everything more intensely than I should. Pain. Temperature. Textures. It doesn't shut off just because I want to sleep."
It was more words than I'd ever heard him speak at once, each one measured and precise, like he'd spent years considering exactly how to explain it if anyone ever asked. Which, I realized with a sudden pang, no one probably had. Except for Grayson, maybe.
"What about meds?" I asked. "Sleeping pills, or?—"
He shook his head. "My metabolism burns through them too fast. And they dull my abilities. Make it harder to control what I absorb." His mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "A choice between sleep and functioning. I choose function."
