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More footsteps. Holden stepped into the ring of light beside Miller.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice thick too.
Miller put one hand on Holden’s shoulder, the other on mine. Miller Stratton, our anchor. The homeless kid who’d once pawned his guitar so his mom could eat. The center of us. Our North Star, keeping us from going adrift.
Holden moved to clasp my shoulder and I gripped his, making the circle complete.
“Guys…” Holden whispered.
“Yep,” Miller said, and I nodded, unable to speak.
No one said another word. No one had to explain or finish the thought. We each felt it. Bone-deep gratitude and love that ran deeper than words.
They’d called us the outcast, the vampire, and the criminal. The Lost Boys. But we were bonded by something stronger than blood or friendship or circumstance. We were soul mates.
And not lost anymore.
The End
