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New York City

November 1

D on’t do this to me, Clara.

You owe me a favor now, and what I want is you.

Wake up, Bluebird.

I love you, Goddammit. I can’t do this without you.

Clara awoke in a private hospital room. In her right hand, an IV port connected to a drip that must have contained some sort of painkiller because she was high as a kite. Her left hand was also attached—to Miles. He sat in a vinyl chair, his fingers gently laced with hers.

“Did you mean all those things you said?” she rasped.

Miles scrambled over. Sitting next to her on the bed, he touched her face reverently. “That depends. What did you hear?”

“You love me.”

“Then, yes.” He took the glass of water from the side table and placed the straw between her lips.

Clara sipped gratefully, then said, “Do you remember what you told me when I was a girl?”

At his confused expression, Clara explained, “I told you I was falling in love with you, and you said, ‘Don’t.’”

“Then I was a stupid, stupid man because there’s nothing I want more.”

“Good. Because you didn’t stop it from happening.” She brushed her fingertips over the scruff of his cheek. “I’ve always loved you, Miles Buchanan. And Caleb Cain and Duke Henry and Jake and the whole damn lot.”

Miles kissed her, speaking with his lips a breath from hers. Clara breathed his air, swam in his presence. “You’re my sun, Clara. For so long, I was content to be a frozen planet in your outer orbit. I should have known. Your light, your warmth, I’m alive again because of you. I love you, Clara, always, forever.”

She clasped his dear face in her hands. “I really hope I’m not dreaming.”

Miles ran his thumb along her jawline. “It’s real, Bluebird. I’ll repeat those words every day, so you know.”

He laid back beside Clara, mindful of her injury. When she was nestled in that spot she loved beneath his shoulder, she slept.