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11:23 a.m.

Death-Cast didn’t call last night, but if I had to die, I’d love for it to be in Alano’s arms.

It took forever to fall asleep, but Alano soldiered through the night with me. And now he’s staying in LA. I roll over in

bed, wanting to wrap my arms around him, but he’s gone. My chest tightens. Did he break his promise and abandon me? I check

my phone, and there’s no missed call, no text explaining himself. I gotta ground myself. Alano wouldn’t ghost. Ghosts don’t

hold you all night and beg for you to live.

I get out of bed to investigate, bracing myself for my first painful step of the day, only for my wounded foot to land on

the star rug that Alano has laid out. Hope swallows doubt off this one gesture, this one reminder that Alano gives a shit

about me. I limp out of the bedroom, straightening up as I get to the living room, where Alano is sitting on the couch, watching

the news; it’s like I’ve time-traveled into a future where we’re boyfriends living together before I remember that we’ve been

a nationwide story.

Alano mutes the TV. “Morning.”

My heart races as I start getting sucked into a spiral. “They’re talking shit about me, right?” Maybe the world is wondering if I’m holding Alano hostage or if I’ve killed him. Then before Alano can say anything, I check myself. “Okay, I don’t have the facts, that’s . . .” I snap my fingers, trying to remember the DBT term. “That’s in the emotional regulation module?”

He smiles. “Correct. You’re a quick study too.”

“Are they saying anything about us?” I ask, trying to get that fact so I know what’s what.

“Only that we hugged.”

“So nothing about me holding you hostage or killing you for the Death Guard?”

“Nothing like that. Shield-Cast even urged the news vans to leave to give us privacy.”

“What about online?” I ask, nervous.

“Let’s not pay attention to strangers critiquing our lives,” Alano says.

I read between the lines: people are talking shit online. Instead of self-harming by reading those comments, I’m staying offline. “Good call.”

“I’m only even watching the news this morning because Carson Dunst is hosting a rally in New York. I’m curious if he’ll finally

condemn the Death Guard’s assassination attempt.”

“I doubt it.”

“Me too, but I will wait for the facts,” Alano says with a wink. “How are you feeling after last night?”

“Okay. I’m sorry about all that crying.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Fine, then thanks for keeping me company.” I sit next to him. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Some sleep. I woke up early to call my parents about skipping the gala. My father is not thrilled with my choice, if you

can believe that. Agent Dane, however, is excited to get more time in Los Angeles. He’s outside discussing logistics with

Shield-Cast.”

So Alano is really, actually, definitely staying, but I’m scared to treat it like it’s really, actually, definitely happening.

“It’s all good if it doesn’t work out.”

“Do you not want me to stay?”

“Oh, I definitely want you to stay.”

Alano smiles. “Fantastic. As long as I’m a support and not a hindrance to your mental well-being, I’m not going anywhere.

Speaking of.” He grabs a pill container from the kitchen counter. “Since Gloria is at work and Rolando stepped out for a job

interview, I’ve been tasked with distributing your antidepressants. How many have you been taking?”

This past week I’ve been all over the place with taking one, doubling up, and skipping my meds all together, but I gotta get

back on this, especially if I wanna be in the right headspace so I don’t hurt myself or Alano or anyone. “Two, please.” I

swallow both pills.

“You have therapy on Fridays, right?”

“Yeah, Dr. Alano.”

“Would you like me to accompany you that day?”

“Are you scared I’m gonna run back to the Hollywood Sign?”

“I’m scared of you doing anything that endangers your life,” Alano says seriously.

If I’m gonna have any chance of surviving past Friday, I’ll need to finally embrace all the people working to keep me alive:

my mom and stepdad, who need me around to be a big brother to their baby; my therapist, who can guide me through my borderline

brain; my psychiatrist, who can up meds or prescribe something better; and now the boy who has become my life coach and the

shield to my sword.