I grunt. Stare at the floor.
“You’re mad at me. I fucked up, didn’t I? I fucked up bad, real bad, and now?—”
I find my voice. “You didn’t fuck up.” The words come out tired.
“Did too,” Pan retorts. “Did too, and now you’re mad at me. Because I’m an asshole.”
I don’t want to smile.
But he just sounds so…petulant.
So I do.
“Oh, so you finally admit it?” I only grin wider when Pan lifts his head and scowls.
“Dick,” he says.
“You’re a dick,” I return.
“No, you.”
It’s like talking to a child, sometimes. It…basically is.
But when I don’t respond, his eyes settle on mine. On me. Like I’m the one stable thing in the room.
“No, you’re right. I am.” He nods. “I am. I’m a dick. And an asshole. I’m…I’m every fuckin’ anatomical thing that fuckin’ fucks shit up.” Another pause. “And I’m sorry.”
I don’t say anything to that. Can’t.
“I’m sorry, Tink.” Pan squeezes his eyes shut, rubs them. “We’ll fix it, though, right?”
We. Of course.
Always we.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “Yeah. Somehow, I guess.” Now I pause. “We always do.”
Pan opens his eyes.
Grins.
Gets to his feet, crosses over to me.
Knocks his knuckles all gentle against my jaw.
And even though I am exhausted and anxious and squeezed too tight around the ribs…
I can breathe a little better.
“You’re the best, Tink.”
His lips are by my ear. He’s close enough to feel his body heat. Close enough for his stupid dangling earring to brush over my shoulder.
“Thebest.”
Close enough to?—
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Yeah—I?—”
