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kisses that makes me suck in a short breath, because the only time Wesley has ever kissed me
—
truly kissed me
—
he did it to read my memories. That was an angry kiss, forceful and firm. But these kisses are different. These kisses are cautious, hopeful.
    “Wes,” I warn.
    His forehead comes to rest against my shoulder. “You sound like thunderstorms and heavy rain, did you know that?” He lets out a soft, low laugh. “I never liked bad weather. Not until I met you.”
    His voice has its usual easy charm, but now it’s also threaded through with longing.
    “Say something, Mac.”
    Wesley’s body rests against mine. The combat padding acts as a buffer, and for a moment all I hear are the sounds of his breathing and my heart. How strange. It’s so…quiet. I’ve gotten used to the sound of Wesley’s noise—learned to float in it instead of drowning—but even the relative quiet of the familiar can never match this. His body on mine. Simple as skin.
    My pulse quickens, and I have to remind myself that I pushed him away. I pushed him away. Now, looking up through Wes’s face mask into his eyes—his lashes darkened with sweat—I will myself to do it again.
    “What are you doing here?” I hiss, trying to hide the hurt in my voice.
    “This might not be the best time to—”
    “Tell me.”
    He opens his mouth. “Mac—”
    And then the whistle blows.
    “All right, enough of that,” calls the teacher. “Both of you, up.”
    Wesley closes his mouth but doesn’t move. I realize my hand is still hooked around his chest plate, holding him there. I let go quickly, and he winks before springing to his feet. He offers me his gloved hand, but I’m already standing. I tug my helmet off, smooth my hair, and scan the crowd of students that gathered while we fought.
    They stare at me and seem…stunned. Confused. Impressed. But they stare . Great. More eyes.
    “We’ll talk later,” says Wes under his breath. “Promise.” Before I can reply, he’s heading for the edge of the platform and tugging off his gear.
    “Hey, wait,” I call after him. He hops down, and I’m about to follow when the burly gym teacher bars my path.
    “One of you has to stay on,” he says as Wesley tosses his equipment into the pile. Cash slings an arm around his neck and says something I can’t hear. It sends both of them into laughter. Who is this boy? He looks so much and nothing like my Wesley.
    “Normally it’s the winner,” the teacher continues, “but truth be told, I’m not entirely sure who won that match.”
    I’m about to say that I don’t want to stay on, but Wesley is already weaving through the crowd, and the next student, a stocky junior, is hoisting himself onto the platform. I don’t want the teacher to think I’m beat after a single fight, so I sigh, readjust my helmet, and wait for the whistle as Wesley’s form vanishes from sight.
Wesley lifts his forehead from my shoulder and shifts his eyes to meet mine. “Please, say something.”
    But what can I say? That when Wesley touches me like this, I think of the way Owen forced me back against the Narrows wall, twisting my want into fear as he tightened his grip? That when I feel Wesley’s lips and my heart flutters, I think of him kissing me in the Coronado hall, reading me, and then pulling sharply away, eyes full of betrayal? That when I think of what I feel for him, I see him bleeding to death on the roof
—
and the pain that comes with caring about him is enough to stop me cold?
    What I say instead is this: “Life is messy right now, Wes.”
    “Life is always messy,” he says, meeting my gaze. “It’s supposed to be.”
    I sigh, trying to find the words. “Two months ago, I’d never met another Keeper. I didn’t have someone in my life I could talk to, let alone trust. And maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t bear the thought of losing you now.”
    “You’re not going to lose me, Mac.”
    “You walked away,” I say softly.
    His brow furrows.