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“How would you know?”
“I know you.”
“Lu—”
“I know you, Ross Jones. At least... I’m starting to. And that much I do know. You’re a fighter. So fight.”
Her words sink into me like sparks of a bright flame, warming me on their way down to my fucking soul, down to the hole in my chest where my heart should be, burning me.
Branding me. Pushing me to understand. Maybe I do.
In the night, under the stars, I don’t need to ask what I’ll be fighting for. It doesn’t matter. It all has to do with her, the strength of her hand in mine, the lingering feel of her lips on my knuckles. I’ll fight for her. I’ll fight for life.
And one day, maybe, I’ll even fight for me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Luna
The mosquitos are the ones that finally convince us to head back. Picking our way in the dark, using the puddles of fading moonlight like stepping stones, we return to the house.
It’s a testament to how shaken Ross is from the nightmares that woke him up at this ungodly hour that when I say “finally home!” as we climb on the porch, he doesn’t correct me to say it’s not his home, only his dad’s house. We stumble together inside and this time we walk into his bedroom and fall on his bed and musty sheets.
Ew.
But I’m too wrung-out to care, especially when he rolls on his back and pulls me against him, growling softly when I hesitate, not satisfied until I’ve rested my head on his shoulder and thrown a leg over his, hopelessly tangled up together.
“Yea
h,” he breathes, and I can hear a faint smile in his voice. He likes this, I think with a sort of faint wonder, tinged with exhaustion.
I like it, too. “Ross...”
“Sorry,” he whispers. “For... for earlier.”
“You need to work on your anger management.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What if we had a code word we can use in such cases...”
“Code word.” He says the words like he’s never heard them before in his life.
“Yeah, code word. Safe word. Whatever. For when you get like that. If you seem to get angry and nasty for no reason, I will say, I don’t know... pineapple. And then you’ll know you’re doing it, and try to stop.”
A silence greets my words, and when I replay them in my mind, I frown. At least I didn’t call him an asshole, I guess.
“Pineapple,” he whispers, and I swear he sounds like he’s about to laugh or choke.
“You don’t like it?” I stick my tongue out to him, and his breath goes out in a little snort. “What’s your favorite fruit?”
“Uh...dunno. Oranges? I’m not big on fruit.”
“What do you like to eat, then?”
A shrug of his broad shoulders that I can feel. “Burgers. Pizza. Waffles. Pancakes.”
“Or right... how about that, then?”
