GWENNA
Sometime late Sunday night,or early Monday morning, I wake up all at once.
My eyes just flick open. Peacefully.
But I’m wide awake.
I roll over, and then again, tugging the comforter over me and wishing I had my weighted blanket. After a few more rounds of tossing and turning, I sigh, give up, and decide to get some water. Reset, maybe.
I’m still groggy enough when I pull open my door that I actually forget there’s someone out there. Until I almost trip over him.
“Ah!” I suck in a breath. “Sorry.”
Callahan’s head jerks up, his eyes wide. He’s sitting, but slumped, and for one panicked second, I think he might be hurt or something. But no. He’s just…
“Sorry,” I say again, whispering intently. “Were you…asleep?”
Callahan blinks behind his glasses. “What? I—no. No, I wasn’t.” He gets to his feet quickly. “No, I was just…”
But as he rises, and I peer into his eyes, he looks…tired.
As soon as he sees me, he looks at the floor. His ears are pink.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to—it’s just been a long weekend.”
God, that’s right. The tournament. I’d been there—of course I’d been there, I wasn’tallowedto be anywhere else—and it looked exhausting. Kai getting the black card. Lanz taking over for him. Kingston and Callahan both barely catching their breath in between bouts, fighting for their lives against Mountstuart and Villa Loyola.
Again, I look up at Callahan. “Have you slept since then?”
He shakes his head.
“Cal,” I whisper. “Come on.”
“It’s not just…” He swallows. “Midterms. I’ve got this paper on the Hapsburgs I haven’t even started. And then next week is Lent, so…”
For the first time, it occurs to me how much this all is.
For them. For him.
For a nineteen-year-old.
“I won’t tell Kingston,” I say quickly. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
Callahan exhales. “Yeah. I mean, thank you. But no. It’s…” He hesitates. “If something happened to you on my watch, I’d never forgive myself.”
In the moonlight, I can see his expression tense, almost like he’s wincing. I have the strange impulse to reach up and stroke his cheek.
I don’t. But I could.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I say softly.
“You don’t know that.” Callahan’s words are soft but fierce. “You never know that, Gwenna. You just don’t. No one does.”
His right hand starts to fidget—his thumb, stroking the rings that he wears on his first two fingers. Almost automatically, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
I wait.
“My parents died,” Callahan says. “They were killed. Home invasion. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t?—”
