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I get in my Jeep and drive the five minutes to Lucien’s frat house, my mind racing the entire way.

I have no idea what I’m going to say. No idea if he’ll even talk to me. But I need to know what the tattoo means. I need to hear him say it.

I park outside the frat house and pull out my phone.

come outside

I wait, staring up at the corner room window. After a moment, there’s movement. Lucien’s silhouette appears, looking down at me.

My phone buzzes.

Cam, i don’t think that’s a good idea

I can’t leave without knowing.

i just have one question. and then I’ll never bother you again

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

come up

I get out of the Jeep and hurry through the cold. My breath comes out in white clouds as I rush toward the front door, each step feeling both too fast and too slow. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, everywhere.

What am I even doing here?

The door opens before I can knock.

Lucien stands in the doorway, and the sight of him steals whatever breath I have left. He’s in his red-and-black tartan sleep pants, the ones I’ve seen him wear before, soft flannel that hangs low on his hips. A black Henley clings to his chest and shoulders, the fabric stretched across muscles I know intimately. His normally styled hair sticks up in all different directions.

But it’s his face that alarms me most. There are dark circles under his eyes, deep purple shadows that make them look bruised, haunted. His lips are puffy and chapped, as if he’s been biting them or maybe just hasn’t been taking care of himself. There are sleep lines creased into his left cheek.

He looks broken. Yet he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

I take it all in, desperate to memorize every detail in case this is the last time I see him: his stance in the doorway, one hand steadied against the frame, the way his stormy eyes find mine and hold.

It’s been days since I last saw him. The rush of need and grief inside me fuses together until I can’t separate one from the other.

He doesn’t say anything. He turns and walks into the house, leaving the door open behind him.

I follow.

The frat house is quiet since most people are probably away for Christmas or nursing hangovers. Lucien starts up the stairs without looking back, and I trail behind him, watching the way his shoulders move beneath the Henley, the way his hand grips the banister.

My pulse is racing. Every step feels charged, electric. The air between us is thick with everything unsaid.

We reach the second floor and move down the hallway toward his corner room. I’ve been here before, the night of the eighties party, when everything between us was still new and terrifying and perfect.

Lucien opens his door and steps inside. I follow and hear the click of the lock behind me.

He turns to face me, and in the harsh winter light glaring through his window, I can see just how hurt he is. It’s written in every line of his body, every shadow on his face.

“One question,” he says, and his voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it much in days. “And then you need to leave.”

I wince, my whole body reacting to the coldness in his tone. I pull the beanie off my head.

I’m suddenly too nervous to ask, too afraid of what the answer might mean. I fidget, looking around the room, looking anywhere but at him. My hand goes to my hair, and I twist a strand between my fingers, a nervous habit I can’t break.

Lucien’s hard edges blur.