Chapter Fourteen

My Whispering Wall story is a hit by the Torch's standards. Not a viral sensation like the Great Porn Ban, but widely read enough—or at least widely talked about enough—that when I walked past the Whispering Wall on Tuesday, there was a large group of people waiting to try it. For two days now, they've whispered secrets, confessions, and jokes to friends, lovers, and complete strangers at the other end of the curved wall, their words carried across the stone to waiting ears. A couple I interviewed who got engaged at the Whispering Wall is even coming back to do a photoshoot with it for their ten-year anniversary, and their story is making the rounds on social media.

Sabina is thrilled by the reaction, and she already wants something else like it.

I'm a little embarrassed that I'm so surprised by the story's success. But it reminds me of what Dara said about people liking stories about other people—and what my mom said about how they called me Neighborhood Watch when I was a kid. I was always fascinated by our neighbors. When one family lost their dog, I helped get the word out. When another had their house broken into, I tried to take statements from the neighbors. And when one lost his wife to cancer, I went door-to-door to make sure everyone knew. That was all about the people. I was getting the story out, but it wasn't sensation or scandal. That was probably my first brush with journalism.

Maybe all those things are the reason I want to do this in the first place. It makes me wonder how that couple who got engaged at the Whispering Wall would have felt if they'd found out it'd been torn down too late to get a few last photos. I can suddenly see the value, the way Dara and Madison do, in these types of stories. And maybe this is an angle the Campus Life column has been missing for a while—stories focused on people rather than scandal.

I'm excited to think of more, and brainstorming new ideas will be a nice distraction over my long, lonely Thanksgiving break.

I'll have time to think about Three's story too. Luckily, he isn't in the newsroom today, already out for the holiday weekend like most of the staff. I spent over an hour yesterday ignoring that penetrating gaze of his, until Madison texted me a link to a Two Minute News update about a fraternity under investigation for hazing involving a goat.

"Hey, hey, this is—this is—" I smacked at his arm, holding my phone out to him. "Do they know? Are we—is this—will they—?" The thought of being caught stealing a goat from a fraternity robbed me of my ability to form a complete sentence.

Three put a hand on my phone, lowering it. "Don't let Christopher see you watching Two Minute News in here."

"Three!"

He smirked. "Relax, Evans. That was me."

I stared at him, heart rate slowing. "This was… you."

He tipped his head toward me, lowering his voice. "I mean, would you have rather covered it? Someone needed to get the hazing investigation going. I wasn't really into it being me, and if you're public enemy number one on Greek Row, you can't exactly help me with my story, so…" He gave me a long look.

"And when Two Minute News connects it to us?"

"In the unlikely event they decide to actually investigate something instead of just regurgitating gossip they hear on campus, then that tip will lead them to an animal rights group that will happily claim responsibility for Chewy's kidnapping."

"Well." I gave a little sniff. "I guess you've got it covered." Then, unable to resist one last jab, I added, "Of course, I should've guessed, since you're an expert at tipping off Two Minute News."

He only laughed, returning to his work, and didn't bother me again the rest of the day. Now he'll be off to wherever he's from—Cincinnati, I think—and I'll have the whole break to decide if I want to lean fully into this human-interest thing, or if I still want to be the investigative journalist I've always dreamed of.

Despite my various distractions and decisions to be made, the prospect of being truly alone for the next four days is daunting. My roommates are gone. My coworkers are gone. The Torch staff has cleared out. Campus is slowly shutting down, not to reopen until Monday.

At my desk, in the quiet, empty newsroom, I pull out my phone and open Buckonnect.

pomerene1765:in your opinion, what is the most depressing holiday?

His response comes almost immediately.

hayes6834:all of them

pomerene1765:oh are you one of those anti-holiday people?

hayes6834:I'm one of those anti-family time people

pomerene1765:most people would say valentine's day

hayes6834:one of the only holidays I'm NOT expected to sit at a table with my parents? I don't think so

hayes6834:I can tell you the least depressing holiday though

pomerene1765: what's that?

hayes6834:mardi gras

pomerene1765:…

hayes6834:lol what?

pomerene1765:just say you love boobs and move on

hayes6834:ok that's not

hayes6834:well actually

hayes6834:listen I can't LIE but that's not why I like it

pomerene1765:it's great to see you place in your event again

hayes6834:my event?

pomerene1765:yeah the foot in mouth event

hayes6834:lol right

hayes6834:all I meant was I love king cake

hayes6834:also has anyone ever really been sad at a parade?

pomerene1765:I think I could be sad anywhere

I've hit send before I can think about it. Talking to Hayes is so easy, I didn't even hesitate to type it.

But now that I'm staring at the words, I feel the squeeze of regret. I shouldn't have said that. It's too real. Too raw. My throat aches suddenly with tears.

pomerene1765:lol maybe that's my olympic event

pomerene1765:anyway I've never had king cake before

His message comes through at the same time.

hayes6834:sometimes I really wish I could hold you

My heart jolts up into my throat. Whatever tears might have been coming dry up instantly.

When I don't respond right away, another message comes through.

hayes6834:it's kind of like coffee cake and a cinnamon roll had a baby

hayes6834:king cake

hayes6834:and the cake sometimes has a baby in it

hayes6834:not a real baby. like a toy

hayes6834:and if you get the baby in your piece it's supposed to be good luck

hayes6834:I freaked you out, didn't I?

pomerene1765:no I love the thought of a petit l'enfant in my cake

hayes6834:ha

hayes6834:you know that's not what I mean

pomerene1765:I'd actually kill to be held

pomerene1765:so no. you didn't freak me out.

When he doesn't say anything, I try to put us both out of our misery. Because being vulnerable is hard, even anonymously.

pomerene1765: if I don't talk to you tomorrow, I hope you have a nice thanksgiving

hayes6834:you too

hayes6834:I hope you can recharge a little. I bet your family will be happy to have you home

A dull ache blooms in my chest. But I don't want him to think I'm pathetic, or to talk about my parents and where they'll be instead this weekend.

pomerene1765:a little recharge would be nice

But when I think about recharging alone in my dorm room for the next four days, I really, truly want to cry.

By the time Thanksgiving Day rolls around, the weight of my loneliness is crushing. It shouldn't be, after only one day. But I'm like a ship riddled with holes, taking on sadness fast enough to capsize. I stay in bed until I can no longer stand it, and then I get up and shower. I dry my hair with an actual hair dryer. I do my makeup, curl my hair, spritz on my favorite perfume, and then pick my nicest dress out of my closet. It is effort wildly unfit for where I'm headed, but it feels fun. I'll breeze in like someone mysterious, who might have come from any Thanksgiving table across town, but now she's had a craving for hash browns, smothered and covered, that she cannot ignore.

The Waffle House near campus is much busier than I expected. When I imagined this, I thought I'd be sitting alone at a table, gazing out the window at the passing cars while I sip bottomless cups of coffee.

Instead, I barely snag a spot at the crowded counter between a large man and a couple that's arguing loudly. I tune in as I place my order, happy for the distraction. Apparently, the woman was rude to the man's mother during their visit for Thanksgiving, and then the mother refused to feed them, and the woman insists his mother took something she said the wrong way, and it is cruel and unusual not to feed someone on Thanksgiving.

My plate is plunked down, and I cut into my waffle as the argument continues.

"Excuse me," I whisper to the man on my right, reaching for the syrup basket in front of him. At the same time, someone on his other side says, "Pardon me." A hand lands beside mine on the basket.

"Sorry," I say, leaning around my neighbor.

I freeze, and my jaw practically lands in my lap.

One seat over, Three mirrors me.

I draw my hand back from the syrup like I've been burned.

Then through the din of the shock buzzing in my ears, I hear the woman behind me shout, "You are such an asshole!"

And the man she's with gives a warning yelp as an ice-cold drink splashes across the back of my head and down my dress.

I jolt to my feet, tripping into the man between Three and me as I shake the ice out of the back of my dress.

"Uh-uh," the woman behind the counter says, pointing at the couple. Her name tag says Marie. "You two are out. Now."

While the couple is ushered out, I rush to the bathroom. I hunch over the sink, rinsing sticky soda from my hair.

Great,I think as I stare at my reflection. Glad I went to all the trouble. Most of the curls are already washed away, and I quickly take care of the rest. I unzip my dress and roll it to my waist so I can wipe down my back as best as possible using a wet paper towel. When I'm done, I struggle with tired arms to get the zipper back up, and it's still hanging open a couple of inches when I give up.

I return to my seat to find Three has moved to the empty stool on my left, bringing his plate and coffee with him. I hesitate as I get closer.

He glances up, his soft expression flattening at whatever he sees on my face. He looks pointedly at my empty seat.

My coffee is still there, but my plate is gone.

"They got your food too," Marie says as she pours some coffee for someone down the counter. "You just sit tight, okay?"

"Thank you," I reply.

"Can I get a small plate, please?" Three asks.

She produces one, and he starts shuffling some of his waffle onto it. He slides the plate over to me. I try to push it back, but he holds it in place.

"Eat," he says.

"Don't tell me what to do."

His gaze flicks to the back of my dress, and he reaches behind me and yanks my zipper up the rest of the way in one quick movement. I nearly gasp, which is possibly the most embarrassing thing to happen tonight. And that's clearly saying something.

"Eat," he repeats.

I shovel a few bites of waffle into my mouth while I gather my bearings.

After a long moment, he asks quietly, "What are you doing here?"

I glance at him as I chew. He's eyeing my outfit, which makes me angry for some reason. I push his face away. "Don't look at me," I say around a mouthful of waffle. "What are you doing here?"

"I asked you first."

"I just got soda dumped down the back of my dress."

Three huffs out a laugh. "And?"

"You're supposed to take pity."

He levels me with a serious look. "I would never be dumb enough to take pity on you, Evans." He turns toward me, nudging his knee against my thigh. "When did you get back?"

"I never went anywhere." My new plate arrives, and I busy myself cutting into my own waffle and mixing up my hash browns. "Your turn."

"Me either. Why didn't you go home?"

I glare at my plate, spearing a few bites onto my fork. "There was a circumstance."

"That's your favorite explanation, isn't it?"

"And you?" I circle my fork, prompting him to answer.

"Several circumstances."

I roll my eyes. "What a thrilling conversation."

"Should we get in an argument, and you can throw your drink on me?"

I try not to remember how he said he gets turned on when he argues.

"You'd better not," Marie says. She's returned to put some plates down for the person on Three's other side.

Three tosses her a grin, and she smiles, clearly immediately charmed.

"Don't look him in the eye," I say. "He sold his soul for that smile."

Marie chuckles. "Might've been worth it."

Three positively preens. "Thank you very much," he says, laying it on thick.

"I am throwing up in my mouth," I mutter.

"So, what's with the dress?" Three asks as Marie moves down the counter. "Big plans tonight?"

"Oh yeah," I reply. "Huge. Huge plans."

"A date?" It comes out glib, and I bristle.

"You bet. Just wanted to get some food first." I shove another bite of waffle into my mouth. "Could be a long night."

"I would've skipped the onions, then," he says, pointing his fork at my smothered-and-covered hash browns.

"I hope I never see the day I want your opinion on how I approach a date."

"Anyone I know?" he asks, leaning an elbow on the counter.

"Sure, but not super well." I hold up my right hand and wiggle my first two fingers at him.

Three stops, then turns slowly and drops his head to the counter.

I grin at my plate, victorious. It's nice to see Three squirm for once.

"Is he dead?" Marie asks when she walks by again.

"God, I hope so," I reply.

Three doesn't move.

"So, what are your plans tonight?" I ask him. "Something similar, I assume."

When he sits up, his cheeks are pink. "Not exactly."

"Oh, a real date, then?"

"I'd tell you, but you haven't given me an answer about interviewing your roommate yet."

I focus on my food again. "I haven't decided."

"Decide now."

But it's not that easy. I think I'm starting to find my voice at the Torch, and I don't want to lose that to Three's story.

"It's a holiday," I say. "I'm off the clock."

"Then I guess you're out of questions."

I take a few more bites, clearing my plate. The silence is weighted as Three does the same.

When Marie drops my check, Three snatches it, folding it inside a big bill, which he passes to Marie before I can protest.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he says to her.

I gape at him. "What—Why—"

He hops off his stool. "Happy Thanksgiving, Evans." He ruffles my hair in an infuriating gesture, then turns and heads to the door, shrugging on his coat.

I blink at Marie.

She raises her eyebrows, nodding in the direction of the door.

"Happy Thanksgiving," I say to her, jumping down from my stool.

By the time I make it out the door, Three is a few storefronts away.

"Tell me what you're doing tonight," I call, shoving my arms into my coat.

Three turns, walking backward. "I don't think I will." He tucks his hands into his pockets, and I'm certain he's enjoying himself right now.

"Call it a trial run," I say as I get closer. He's slowed to let me catch up, so I know he hasn't written me off entirely. "I'll come with you. To see if I really want to do this story or not."

I want to—badly. But I'm worried about the balancing act—this story, work, my new human-interest angle on Campus Life, and somehow not failing all my classes, particularly statistics.

I need to know this is worth how hard I'll have to work.

Three laughs. "How generous." He turns, speeding up again. "Go home, Evans."

I let out a frustrated growl. I know he's probably playing with me, backing me into a corner until I can no longer fight my curiosity. Because he isn't heading toward campus, and when he gets to the end of the block, he makes a right toward Greek Row.

I start after him, resolving that if he won't tell me, I'll just have to follow him.

But when I turn the corner, he's waiting, leaning up against the side of the building. He tilts his head toward me lazily, his expression amused.

"Fine," I say.

He raises his eyebrows.

"Fine, I'll do the interview. Fine." I pause, considering this. "I mean, I'll give it my best shot. I told you we aren't friends."

"Text her."

I balk. "Right now?"

"I need proof you'll actually do it."

I take my phone out, holding it up to show him as I open my texts with Ellie. She's still embarrassingly high in my messages list, even though we haven't texted in months.

I start typing: Hey, Ellie. Are you available

Three grabs the phone. "No. Jesus, Evans, do you have no idea how to talk to people?"

I bristle, snatching it back. We both fumble for the phone, yanking it back and forth, and when I finally get a look at the screen, I yelp in dismay.

"Three!" I hold up the phone, both our hands still clasped around it.

ME:

He

He jerks it out of my hands and starts typing, thumbs flying across the screen. When I peek over his shoulder, he has a block of text written.

ME:

Hey. Sorry. I hit send too fast. I just wanted to say hi and Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you're doing well. I've been thinking a lot about you and the story the Torch did. I'm really sorry if you were hurt by it. I would have warned you but I didn't know about it until it was too late. But I should have reached out then anyway.

I guess he can clearly see I haven't texted Ellie since September, when I sent, Did I leave a blue notebook on my bed? and Ellie responded, No.

Three keeps typing.

ME:

I want to try to make it right if you're up for it. I'd like to get your side of things. It can be as short an interview as you want. I don't think you started selling on your own and it's not fair that you're going down alone now.

I stare at the messages, then look at him. "You are a master manipulator, aren't you?"

I don't say what I'm really thinking: How does he manage to sound like me?

He passes my phone back to me. "I didn't say anything that isn't true."

"Right. Of course. Because you're so worried about the people your articles might hurt."

"I know you'll hate to hear this, Evans, but I do actually worry." He scrapes his hand through his hair. "I joined the Torch because I want to write stories that help people. I'm sorry your roommate had a tough time because of me, but she did that to herself. She was selling drugs. Hard drugs. So I'm a little confused how you've made me out to be the bad guy in all this."

I bite my lip, my chest squeezing with embarrassment. Because he's right, to a point. I don't know if I believe he's on the Torch to do good so much as he is chasing glory, but he's right about Ellie. Whatever has happened to her, it's because she made a very bad choice. One that had the potential to hurt a lot of other people.

I look away, mumbling out a quiet, "Sorry."

I feel Three's attention swivel back to me. "What was that?"

I hold up a hand. "Don't push it." When I look over, he's grinning, delighted. I groan. "Ugh. That's pushing it."

His grin widens somehow, even though it's already stretched far enough to crack his face in two.

"So, what are you doing? I did my part. You have to tell me your plans."

Three coughs into his fist, glancing down the street. Then he inches closer, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

"I'm breaking into the Sigma Rho house."

The Sigma Rho house is at the center of Greek Row, a few doors down from Tau Delta Pi. The windows are dark, and Three leads me around the side to the empty parking lot in back. He walks with the confidence of someone who's sure we won't get caught.

"?‘Breaking in'?" I whisper, lifting my hands to give it air quotes when he produces a key to the back door.

Three flashes me a grin, pushing the door open with his shoulder. "I grabbed it at a party last week. You'd be shocked how many of these guys leave their shit just lying around."

As we step inside, I observe the state of the kitchen, which has dishes piled high in the sink, an old pizza box on the island, and, sitting by the door, two trash bags that, judging by the smell, have been here awhile.

I press my nose into my sleeve. "Yeah, no, that's not taking a stretch of the imagination, actually."

He motions for me to follow him through the kitchen into the hall. We pass a great room with two large couches, big enough to easily seat twenty but littered with discarded clothes, a blanket I could not be paid to touch, and a single boat shoe inexplicably tied to the ceiling fan.

"Please tell me your frat house isn't this disgusting," I whisper to Three as we start up the stairs.

He shoots me an insulted look over his shoulder, shaking his head.

"Oh please, you said you don't even like it," I hiss as we reach the second floor.

He puts a finger to his lips, and my eyes pop wide.

Is someone here?I mouth.

He rolls his eyes. "No, but I'm trying to focus."

He points toward a door down the hall. I follow him, my heart hammering harder with each creak of the floor.

Inside, Three motions to the desk, which is strewn with every piece of junk imaginable, though no schoolwork. "We're looking for a stash. Bags, bottles, anything." He pulls open the curtains, letting in light from the moon and the streetlamps outside. "I think he's Ellie's supplier, but I can't link him to the guys at the other houses unless I find what he's dealing."

I start pulling open drawers, rifling through their contents and checking for false bottoms like I'm Sherlock Holmes or something. Three opens the closet, flicking on his phone flashlight as he pushes around the clothes and shoes inside. I exhaust myself on the desk and move to check under the bed, but I end up touching something fuzzy and immediately start to gag.

"So dramatic," Three mutters.

"Oh, you touch it, then!"

"If you can't handle it, I guess I'll have to—oh. Scratch that." He waves me over.

He's unearthed a backpack from beneath a pile of clothes, and inside are several plastic bags. Most are filled with different-colored pills, and a few more with pot.

Three snaps some pictures, flipping through each bag carefully to make sure he gets every variety and quantity. As I hold one up for him, I have the good sense to ask, "Um, should I be worried about leaving fingerprints on these?"

He huffs out a laugh. "Jesus, Evans, you watch too much TV."

"It's a reasonable question!" I start returning some of the bags to the backpack, frowning at the stash. It's certainly a lot of drugs. "Why would he leave this here when he's out of town?"

"He's not out of town," says Three. "He's from here."

"What?"The word leaves my mouth on a hiccup.

Downstairs, a door slams.

Three's eyes widen.

"I'm gonna throw up," I moan.

Three quickly piles everything back into the closet, then grabs me and pulls me out the door. He leaves it open behind us, exactly how we found it.

We duck into a room across the hall, where he tugs me into another closet and slides the door shut behind us. I grab onto him like he's the last life raft and the ship is sinking. At the very least, I can fling him at whoever finds us as a distraction while I make a run for it.

"Cozy," Three murmurs.

"If you don't shut the hell up," I hiss back.

Feet thunder up the stairs, and I close my eyes, dropping my forehead to Three's shoulder. I've lost all sense of reality beyond what's happening on the other side of this door. Three must have too, because he puts his arms around me and gently smooths his hand down my back.

"It'll be fine," he whispers, tilting his head down so his mouth is right by my ear. "We won't get caught."

I swallow down my nerves and let out a slow, shaky breath.

I don't know how much time passes before I hear a bedroom door shut. Music starts up loudly on the other side.

Three maneuvers us, keeping his arms around me. He leans back against the wall, using one hand to crack the door a sliver. It lets in a dim, orange glow. The hall light must be on now.

"Come on," he whispers, pushing the closet door open.

I widen my eyes at him, shaking my head. But he steps out into the room, pulling me with him. I try to take several calming breaths as we move to the door. He leans out, keeping one arm stretched back toward me. Then he waves me forward as he steps out into the hall.

I freeze in the doorway.

He looks back, motioning for me to move.

I shake my head, heart pounding.

Three's expression darkens, and he grabs my wrist, yanking me into the hall. We tiptoe past the room we were just searching, music rattling the closed door. We take the stairs as quietly as possible, and I wince at every creak and groan of the wood beneath our feet.

Outside, Three leads me along the back of the house, keeping close to the wall, before we slip down the yard and to the street.

"Oh my god," I whisper when we reach the sidewalk. Three keeps moving, pulling me along at a clip. "I thought I was gonna die."

"You froze," Three says, accusation in his voice. His hand on my wrist is burning hot.

"I was scared!" I jerk my arm out of his grasp. "You gave me zero warning going in there! If I'd known he could come home at any second—"

"He shouldn't have. His parents live in town, but he was supposed to be there late." He rushes a hand through his hair. "I don't know why he came back so early."

"And I had no way of knowing you wouldn't abandon me in there! You'd be guaranteed the Campus Life spot if I got picked up for a fucking B and E."

"B and E." He rolls his eyes. "You really do watch way too much TV."

I speed up until he's several feet behind me.

"Oh, come on," he calls, jogging to catch up. "I wouldn't have left you. You would've immediately sold me out, and Christopher would know you weren't lying, so—"

I let out a high, outraged sound. "I'm so glad to know that's your reasoning! Not because it would be a horrible thing to do!"

"Hey, I got you out of there, didn't I?" He catches my elbow, pulling me back beside him. "I wouldn't have left you. I had four different plans to get you out of that house. I might mess with you, but I wouldn't abandon you like that."

He's loosened up now, likely coming off an adrenaline rush. I'm still on edge, but his calm is rubbing off on me.

"Four different plans?" I eye him. "Are you some kind of criminal mastermind?"

"I developed some specialized skills at boarding school."

"Right. Boarding school again."

"I can't change that I went there."

"You can change how often you bring it up. Although I'm sure it's hard not to think about it when you're still using your boarding school nickname."

I mean it as a jab, but Three responds sincerely. "Three isn't a boarding school nickname." At my incredulous look, he grins. "I've always gone by Three. Wells was the first one to get a boarding school nickname. Three's a family nickname."

"Wells?"

His expression shifts, and he coughs lightly. "My, uh, cousin." He looks out to the road, and I miss whatever happens next on his face. When he lets me see his eyes again, whatever clouded in them has gone. He tucks his hands into his pockets and smiles. "Anyway, it probably is annoying to hear about it, but I can't help it today. Thanksgiving always makes me think of them."

"Your school?"

"My friends." He shrugs. "My cousins."

"Why didn't you go home, then? See your cousins, at least. I know your boarding school friends probably aren't all from whatever hell town you crawled out of."

"Cincinnati," he says.

"So why didn't you go back to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving? Reminisce about your boarding school days with someone who cares?"

"Because I needed to do this." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the Sigma Rho house. His gaze slides straight ahead, almost like he's avoiding my eyes. "And because I didn't want to be at home."

"Don't you miss your cat? And your sister?"

He sighs. "Yeah. Look, Evans, the truth sucks. I ditched my sister and my cat and my cousins because I didn't want to deal with my parents. Wells has already given me a hard enough time for it, so I really don't need to hear it from you too. I know you think I've got this bright and shiny life, and I guess I do for the most part, but it's not always nice. It's rarely ever fun. And Thanksgiving is just a big table where you get served expectations with a side of expectations, and for dessert it's expectations pie. It's not the worst thing in the world, and I'm grateful to have somewhere to go, but I couldn't deal this year. And clearly"—he circles a hand in the direction of the Sigma Rho house again—"I had shit to do."

His frown deepens, and I wonder if he feels the instant regret of sharing so much truth with me. I want to give him a hard time—I had nowhere to go, and a lot of people have it way worse than I did this year. But he's clearly already aware of that, and it's not his responsibility to make himself miserable just because he had somewhere to go and chose not to.

So instead I say, "Thanks for not leaving me. In the house. I won't freeze up next time."

"You better not," he says, but it's lacking bite. I get the sense he appreciates the change in subject.

"So there will be a next time?"

"Wasn't this your trial run?"

"Does it still count if I can't get your interview?" I pull my phone from my bag and show him the blank screen. Nothing from Ellie yet.

"Give it time," he says.

"I guess that's a no."

"It's not a no. This was your tryout." He grins over at me. "I might let you on the team."

"You and me, on a team?"

"Just for this," he says quickly. "I still plan to destroy you to get the Campus Life spot."

"Glad to know you haven't been body snatched, then."

He leaves me at the front of my building, waiting to see me inside before he turns and starts toward his dorm.

I realize when I'm lying in bed later, recovering from the adrenaline, that I can still feel the ghost of Three's embrace. And what I told Hayes is true—I would kill to be held like that again.

Even if it had to be Three.