Lucie

It'd been hours since he'd said anything. Hours since he'd moved. Hours since he'd done anything but sat at the edge of his bed and let the air dry his dampened shirt. I wanted to say something to him, but how could I? How could I when I was in just as many pieces, when I had the same Vinny-shaped hole in my heart that he did?

It was hard to comfort someone when you needed just as much help.

So Caprice carried Vinny's limp body down the stairs and out into her car to put him back in his grave, and Cian and I just sat for a while.

Nura had gone with Caprice, I'd thought; as to where Mrs. Horne was, I didn't know. I didn't care. I couldn't care. There was nothing in me anymore except this terrifying void Vinny's death had left behind.

And it was real this time. He was gone. There was no teetering boundary for him to flicker back over, no link to keep his soul tethered to Cian, to the earth. This was final. I'd seen him for the last time. I'd spoken to him for the last time.

I already wished I could go back. I wished I could fix this.

I sat on the floor, my back against the shut door to Cian's bedroom. The residue of tears was sticky against my cheeks, made frigid by the humming ceiling fan. The silence was more than just a lack of noise—it was a lack of everything. Of motion, of expression, of life.

My phone rang out then, still with the calming nature song I'd had it set on for months. I was too lazy to change it. Exhaling, I dug it from my pocket and squinted at the screen. It was my dad's eighth call. My mom had already called thirteen times.

"Is that your parents?"

To my surprise, it was Cian who had spoken. I glanced up at him, and he had lifted his head, concern ever present in his gaze. The wet blot on his shirt had shrunk to a solitary corner, his hair fuzzy but dry.

"Yeah," I answered after a beat. "They've been looking for me since I woke up."

"You should go home, then," Cian replied, a subtle breach in his voice, a minimal quiver, that both of us pretended not to hear. "You should, if they're worried about you. I'll be alright."

I bit my lip, setting my phone down on the floor. "With all due respect, Cian," I told him, "you really can't lie to me."

He jerked an eyebrow upwards. It was subtle, but it was the most exaggerated thing I'd seen him do with his face since Caprice carried Vinny away.

"I just—I mean you're bad at it," I elaborated, dropping my gaze. "You're really bad at it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I'm not lying. You should go home—"

"That's not what I meant."

I looked up in time to see Cian swallow, his jaw working. His eyes, dim despite the soft sunlight filtering in through the blinds, fluttered half-shut; he threw himself back on the bed with a theatrical wumph.

"Lucille Anais Monteith," he breathed. "You can read me like a book."

"I'm just stating the obvious," I countered, rising shakily to my feet. Cian's gaze lifted, trailing me as I took one step closer, and then another, stopping at least a foot or so from the bedside. I had to look away; his landing had left his shirt a bit askew, revealing a line of firm skin. It didn't matter the circumstance; he still enticed me, put me under a spell I never wanted to reverse. "You're not alright. You shouldn't be alright. This is everything you've been avoiding, everything you tried to protect him from..."

I trailed off as his hand slid around my wrist, pulling me the last few inches toward him. He shushed me, closing his eyes again. "Lucie, I don't need to hear this. It hurts. I know. You don't have to tell me."

"I don't want you to hide it, is all. Hiding how you feel about all this is just going to make it worse."

"It can't get worse," he snapped, his grip on me tightening. I let out a small squeal of discomfort, but he didn't seem to notice. "I let my brother drown himself. I neglected him, and now he's dead. It can't get worse."

My eyes fell towards his fingers, still wrapped unyieldingly around my wrist. Clearing my throat, I brushed them off, grabbing his hand instead. My gaze remained on the floor, but I could feel him, searching my face. "But he moved on," I whispered, and heard Cian take in a sharp breath. "He found peace."

"Believe me, Lucie," he told me. "I want to believe that makes this better, but I'm really not sure. I just—I don't even want to think about it. I don't even want to think."

Then he was up, crossing the floor and drawing the blinds shut, sweeping the curtains closed. I jolted a bit as the room settled into a hazy darkness, the former sunbeams extinguished like doused candles. He turned, a mere shadow blending with the walls, and I wondered how I hadn't seen it before. Doubtless, there was sorrow in his eyes, grief at his mouth. But well-woven into that was hunger, barely suppressed.

"Cian," I exhaled, "we shouldn't."

He groaned softly, shaking his head, approaching me in two broad strides and bringing me close to him. He cradled my chin in his gentle hands, his forehead against mine, his breath against my lips. His eyes were on me, nothing but me, and I met his gaze, shivering.

"Lulu," he said, his eyebrows furrowing. "Please. Make me forget. Touch me. Kiss me. Make it go away, if only for a little while."

"This isn't going to fix—"

"I know," he allowed. "I know that, muffin. I'm just tired of thinking, of talking, of feeling. Take it all away. Make me forget."

I took in a long breath, leaning forward, then back again. He slid his hands from my chin, entwining his fingers in mine instead, bringing my hands up to link around the back of his neck. I gasped when he gripped my hips, brought me closer still.

My heart was hammering. I couldn't even hear myself think. "I want to."

He cocked his head, inching closer, so that his lips hovered over mine. I tasted the words more than I felt them: "Then what's stopping you?"

His mouth came down on my own in a flourish of sweltering heat and frigid cold; my skin burned with the sensation, yet I shivered as he touched me. In a second, I was lost, sinking. The whir of the air conditioning, the bedroom's thickened air, seemed to fall away as he held me, his grip steady and yet always changing: always pulling me in closer, begging me for more. His lips slid in between mine like puzzle pieces; I tasted the salt of his tears and mine.

I had told him we shouldn't. But I was caught up in a rush; I hadn't felt this in so long. We had to. I had to.

Cian trailed a line of kisses down my neck, pausing a moment, his mouth against my collarbone. I lifted one hand to play with the strands of his hair.

His hands came under my legs, and I yelped as he hoisted me up against him, my legs kicking air. I expected him to smile, or laugh, but he didn't. He just craned his neck back and kissed me once more, fervent, before setting me gently down atop his bed.

And then it all stilled; he stared down at me, his eyes wide, questioning.

Maybe the logical part of me said no. But I wanted him. I needed him.

So I nodded, and his cold hands brushed my torso as he took the sweatshirt by its hem and lifted it over my head. He paused a moment, his eyes scanning me. I let him for a while, then impatiently tugged him down towards me again.

Against my neck, he whispered, "It doesn't make sense."

My eyes closed. "What?"

"How I ended up with you," he said between heavy breaths. "How I ended up with someone as smart as you, as beautiful—Jesus, it hits me every time I look at you. I just don't deserve you."

"You aren't supposed to be talking," I said, my voice shaking. "You're supposed to be forgetting."

His mouth, feverish, brushed mine again. "You're right, muffin."

Skin burned to be on skin. I pulled his shirt from his chest, and I could feel him, the planes of muscles and bones and skin against me. We were one body, moving and breathing in unison.

And it was alright for a while, this blind melee of blurred lust and love, this opportunity to numb the pain. I could focus on Cian, on his lips, on the feel of his body seeping warmth into mine, and not much else. Then his hand slipped around my back, nudged the clasp of my bra.

I breathed in, then reached and grabbed his arm. Reason flooded back in. "Cian," I whispered. "No, no. This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. This isn't how—how we should be coping."

His next kiss was a lazy one, a sloppy, brisk embrace. He lifted himself up on his elbows, far enough that I could see the sort of dazed concern on his face, close enough that the tips of his golden hair brushed my forehead. "But I..." he paused, shaking his head. "Do you want me to stop?"

I nodded. "I'm sorry. It doesn't feel right. Not after..."

His eyes flashed with reluctant agreement, and then he rolled over, flopping down beside me. Almost self-consciously, I drew his blanket up over myself, letting out a heavy sigh and turning to face him.

The edge of my nail traced a gentle line down the bridge of his nose; he shut his eyes as I kissed his forehead, his eyelashes, his cheek. "You know why, don't you?" I whispered to him. "You know why I can't."

"Once again," he told me. "You're right. But just promise me—promise me you'll stay? For a little bit. For a little bit longer."

His voice broke gently, brittle as wet paper, and I let out a soft sob, letting the tears slip. I pushed closer to him, resting my hand against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart beneath his skin.

Curled up against him, I ignored the tears that just seemed to keep on falling. "I will stay," I told him, "as long as you want me to."