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I settle into the bed beside Jax, nestling my head into the crook of his arm. Luke and Mave are talking quietly, already planning their next mission. The thought of saying goodbye to them makes me ache .

Jax turns his gaze to me, his eyes soft .

“Are you all right?” I whisper .

“I’m all right,” he says, stroking my arm. “I thought …”

“I thought too,” I say. But I can’t say all the things that bubble under my subconscious. Jax could have died, and he would have died because of me, because I made the wrong call. The only thing that saved us was Professor Boyd’s sadism, the need to drag out the process of breaking us before our murders .

Maybe Molly would have tried to intercede earlier, but she had no way of knowing Jax would survive being knocked down with a shovel or that Professor Boyd wouldn’t actually use that gun he pulled on me, especially given my bad dye job .

In the end, Jax is lucky to be alive. But he wouldn’t have to worry about being that kind of lucky if it weren’t for me .

I can’t tell him that. So I wrap my arms around him, tight, and promise myself that I am never going to put him in danger like that again .

Jax kisses my forehead, his lips as soft and light against my hairline as the brush of a balloon .

“I know,” he says. And he probably doesn’t know, not really. No one is that attune to what someone else is thinking after some trauma like we’ve been through, no matter how close of friends. But I’d like to think he does. I let my eyes drift shut again as his fingers thread through mine, and we hold hands across his chest .

Everything with Mave is delicious and uncertain. Everything with Luke is wild and tense and heated .

Everything with Jax is comfortable and sweet .

And as I drift off to sleep, I can’t imagine life without any of them .

I can’t even imagine life without the ghosts .