Page 4

"You've been protecting me our whole lives, Dal.

But you know what?" I cross to her, take her face in my hands.

"I've been protecting you too. Every time Dad got too drunk, too angry because of club shit.

Every time Mom cried because of the stress and pressure of life, and couldn't get out of bed.

We protected each other. That's what we do. "

"But this is different?—"

"No, it's not." I pull her into my arms. "It's just bigger. Scarier. But we're still us. Still the same old twins against the world."

She clings to me, crying harder now. "I can't lose you."

"You'll never lose me," I whisper into her hair. "Never. Do you hear me?"

"Promise?"

"Promise." I pull back, look her in the eye. "We protect each other. That's what we do. That's what we've always done."

She nods, wiping her face. "I'm coming with you."

"Dalla—"

"Wherever you go, I'm coming too." Her chin sets in that stubborn way I know means no argument will work. "You're not this alone."

"I need to do this part on Monday alone," I say gently. "But you can drive me. Keep the car running in case I need a quick escape."

"Like we're robbing a bank?"

"Emotional bank robbery, maybe."

Everly clears her throat. "Why don't you both go to the club together? The gods know you'll need each other in the coming weeks."

An hour later, we’re heading to the clubhouse.

Dalla's driving because my hands won't stop shaking.

She puts on our old roadtrip playlist—the one from high school, full of terrible pop songs we know every word to.

"Remember when we drove to Pensacola?" she asks as Taylor Swift croons about teenage heartbreak. "Senior year, told Dad we were at Sarah's house?"

"You threw up on the beach from too many margaritas."

"You made out with that surfer who turned out to be sixteen."

"He said he was in college!"

We're laughing now, the tension breaking like a fever.

This is what we do—fight hard, forgive harder.

"I've been seeing someone," she admits as we pass the exit for Lake City. "Nothing serious. Pre-med student named Leo. He's... nice."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I felt guilty." Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "You're getting married to save the club, and I'm worried about whether Leo will text me back."

"Oh, Dal." I reach over, squeeze her shoulder. "You deserve normal. You deserve Leo the pre-med student and worrying about texts and all of it."

"While you deserve Doran Volkolv?"

"I deserve..." I trail off because what do I deserve?

Choice? Love? A law degree? "I deserve to keep my family safe. Everything else is secondary."

"Bullshit."

"No more secrets between us," I say instead of arguing. "Ever. Promise?"

"Promise." She glances at me. "So. Njal."

"Njal." I sigh. "It's been two years of 'complicated.' Started at that club party?—"

"I remember. You came home with your lipstick smeared and this look on your face."

"We said we'd keep it casual. No labels, no pressure. Just... us."

"And now?"

"Now I have to say goodbye." My phone buzzes.

Doran, because of course it is:

Safe travels, little wolf

"He's tracking my car," I realize. "That's how he knows I'm heading to the club."

"Fucking creep." Dalla takes the exit harder than necessary. "I hate him."

"You don't know him."

"I know enough."

Njal's apartment complex comes into view too quickly.

He's waiting outside, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, looking like every college memory I'm about to lose.

Dark hair messy from running his hands through it, that old leather jacket I've worn a hundred times, eyes that have seen me in every possible state—drunk, crying, laughing, coming undone.

"Thirty minutes," Dalla says. "Then I'm coming up."

"Dal—"

"Thirty minutes, Rev."

I get out on unsteady legs.

Njal doesn't move until I'm close enough to see the hurt in his eyes, the dark circles that say he didn't sleep either.

"Is it true?" No greeting, no pretense. "You're actually marrying Volkolv?"

I hold up my left hand, the sapphire catching the morning sun. "Monday we announce it. Four weeks until the wedding."

"Four weeks?" He runs his hands through his hair—dark like his father's, but with his mother's gentle curl. "Fuck, Rev. We said we'd figure this out. After graduation?—"

"We were kidding ourselves." The words hurt but they're true. "This was always going to happen."

"I would have fought for you."

"And gotten yourself killed. Your father works for mine, Njal. There was never a version of this where we won."

He turns away, jaw clenched. "Two years. Two years of?—"

"Of what? Sneaking around? Never calling it what it was? We never even said—" I stop because finishing that sentence will break us both.

"I know what we never said." He faces me again, and Gods, his eyes. "Doesn't mean I didn't feel it."

"Don't."

"Why not? Because it's inconvenient now? Because Volkolv's already put his brand on you?" He gestures at the ring. "Four weeks, Rev. That's all? That's what we're worth?"

"Stop it."

"No. You know what? Fuck being noble about this." He steps closer. "I love you. Have since that first night when you punched Caleb Zambuto and then threw up in my car."

"That's not—you're just?—"

"What? Confused? Jealous? Pick whatever makes this easier for you." His hands cup my face, calloused from years of working on bikes with his dad. "But I know what I feel. What I've felt for two years while we played pretend."

"It wasn't pretend."

"Then what was it?"

I can't answer because admitting what we were means admitting what we're losing.

"Come up," he says quietly. "Please. Just... come up."

I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.

But Dalla gave me thirty minutes and I'm already here and Monday I'll belong to someone else and?—

"Okay."

His apartment smells like coffee and him—that mixture of leather and coconut, and the cologne I bought him last Christmas.

My toothbrush is still in the bathroom holder, purple and reminding me of a different life.

My favorite mug sits clean on the drain board, the one with the stupid chemistry joke only he thinks is funny.

Evidence of a relationship we never named scattered everywhere.

The walls are covered in photos—his family, the club, us.

One from last New Year's, me on his lap at Bubba's, both of us laughing at something Oskar said.

Another from the beach trip we took in secret, my hair wild from salt water, his arms around me from behind.

We look happy.

We look like a couple.

We look like what we could have been.

"I kept thinking we had time," he says, closing the door. "After school, after the club shit settled, after?—"

"There was never going to be an after."

"I could have tried. Could have talked to your dad, made a case?—"

"Based on what? Two years of fucking in secret?"

He flinches. "It was more than that."

"Was it?" I'm being cruel but I need him to let go. Need us both to let go. "We never went public. Never met each other's families officially. Never?—"

He kisses me.

Hard, desperate, tasting like goodbye and everything we never said.

My hands tangle in his hair against every better judgment, muscle memory taking over.

He backs me against the door, and I let him, let myself have this last moment with him.

"One last time," he breathes against my mouth. "Rev, please. I know it's selfish?—"

"Yes."

It's frantic, clothes scattered between the door and his bedroom.

Two years of knowing each other's bodies makes it easy and heartbreaking at once.

His hands shake as they undress me, like he's trying to memorize every inch.

I trace the scar on his ribs from the bike accident when he was seventeen, the tattoo on his shoulder he got when drunk last year—my initials hidden in the design, something I pretended not to notice.

"I love you," he whispers against my throat. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

I can't say it back.

Even now, even in this goodbye, I can't give him that.

He takes his time, like we have forever instead of minutes.

Kisses every bruise from training, every scar from childhood adventures.

When he finally slides inside me, we both freeze, overwhelmed by the weight of this really ending.

"Look at me," he says. "Please, Rev. Just... look at me."

I do, and the raw emotion in his eyes breaks something in me.

This is what I'm giving up—not just sex, not just companionship, but someone who knows me.

Who's seen me at my worst and still wants me.

We move together slowly, saying with our bodies what we never could with words.

He whispers my name like a prayer, like he's trying to burn the memory into his skin.

I dig my nails into his back, leaving marks that will fade before my wedding day.

After, we lie tangled in sheets that smell like us, neither willing to move first.

Reality waits outside this room and we both know it.

His bedroom is exactly as I remember—clothes on the chair, textbooks scattered on his desk, the plant I gave him somehow still alive even though I know he hasn’t been watering it like I would.

"I hate him," Njal says to the ceiling. "I've never met him and I hate him."

"He's not—" I stop because defending Doran feels like I’ll end up hurting Njal.

"I won’t lie to you. I know we both have to move on, and there's someone else." The words come out rushed. "Ingrid. We've been talking."

The sting is sharp and unexpected. "Bjorn's ex?"

"That's been over for years. Since before you and I—" He turns to look at me. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I just thought you should know. In case... after..."

"After I'm married." The words taste like ash.

"Yeah."

We're quiet again.

Somewhere below, a door slams.

Normal Saturday sounds of life continuing.

His neighbor's music thumps through the thin walls—that terrible EDM he always complains about.

"Remember when we first hooked up?" he says suddenly. "You were so drunk you tried to put your shirt on as pants."

"I was not that drunk."

"Rev, you asked me if my apartment had stairs. We were already upstairs."

I laugh, hard. "Okay, maybe I was that drunk."