Page 312 of Immune

That is how I know this is going to fucking hurt.

“What if I say yes?” I ask.

“Then I walk with you.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll stay right here.”

That simple. No pressure or some clever answer. And I really hate how much I need it.

“Fine,” I say, because apparently I’d much rather chew on glass than say please. “Air.”

Fletcher’s gaze dips to my throat. To Ewan and Kaito’s bites on either side of my throat. For about half a second, something crosses his face. I wouldn’t call it jealousy or even hurt. More like a quiet kind of wanting that he doesn’t reach for.

Then he nods and steps aside, leaving room for me to pass first.

I do.

We leave through the side hall without announcing it to anyone. Xeon shifts just enough to block the view from the conference room but not obviously or suspiciously. Just that quiet helpful way of his. The absence in my chest aches once more, right next to the one that has formed with Fletcher’s cedar and leather scent I’ve had at my back.

I keep walking.

Fletcher doesn’t utter a word until we reach the old equipment yard behind a garage. It’s half-covered by a thin metal roof and packed with things Haven Ridge hasn’t decided whether to fix, scrap, or keep as rare pre-world-collapse junk. I mean, a broken tractor has been left discarded close to the fence and stacks of lumber are leaning against a far wall while tarps flap softly in the night wind.

The air smells like rain bleeding with rust. With oil, dirt, and Fletcher.

I stop under the roof and wrap my arms around myself, tilting my face toward the breeze. Beyond the fence, the dark spills into the sky while patrol lights flash over the tree line in slow, pale sweeps.

“Far enough?” he asks.

I look over at him slowly. He’s standing several feet away, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared as if he’s ready for anything except touching me without permission. It makes me think of the first time I saw him. All big, broad body and even bigger suspicion. The kind of Alpha who looked like hecould break a door clean off its hinges and then have a very stern talking-to with the door for being in the way.

He used to make me want to throw things. Preferably at him. And honestly, he still kind of does, just… different things.

“I don’t know,” I admit with a weak shrug. I hate it.

He nods only once, his jaw clenching tightly. “All right.”

“You’re not gonna ask me what I need?”

With a deliberate shake of his head, he says, “I reckon you’ll tell me when you know.”

Something in my chest loosens. Damn him. Damn him to hell and right back.

I turn away and walk to the stack of lumber, reaching my hand out to touch it. My fingers drag over rough wood, splinters catching at my skin in a way that causes pricks of pain. Not a bad pain, just little reminders that I’m still me. I’m still in the driver’s seat.

“I thought I’d feel better,” I confess quietly.

“About what?”

“Having an answer, I guess.”

Fletcher says nothing, which I’m actually grateful for, because words always come out easier when it’s quiet and I can pretend there’s no one but the clouds and stars listening.

“For the longest time I’ve been hiding. Moving. Keeping my scent dead and my head down. Surviving because there literally wasn’t a single time to breathe right, let alone trying to understand anything else. And now there’s an answer. Well, there’s half of one, and it just feels…”

I stop.