He's hunched forward in a hoodie that was too much in summer, but not enough in winter. His guitar is strapped to his back, hands in his pockets, bike leaning against the railings, and a duffel bag at his feet.

I stare at him with my breath clouding in front of me and my heart expanding to fill every free inch of my chest cavity. It's beating so hard it hurts.

Adam notices me even in my silence and lifts his head. He stands quickly, shoving his hood back. His hair is messy, like he just rolled out of bed, and he says with the scratchiness of someone who's been sitting in the cold too long, "Did you mean it?"

I swallow hard. "Mean what?"

"When you said you would miss me."

God, I could punch his pretty face.

Instead I close the distance between us and hug him tighter than I've ever hugged anyone.

Tighter than I hugged Corey the last time I saw her and was convinced I'd never see her again. Adam puts his arms around me and squeezes back. We're both so cold, but hanging onto each other, we're warm and we're okay. He's okay. I'm okay. He's alive and he's here.

"I miss you right now," I mumble into his neck. Adam tightens his grip. There's a tiny tremor to his hand. He is shivering. It's the only reason I pull away and lead him up the stairs. We drag his bike along and leave it just outside the door.

The heater's been running inside the apartment, so it's toasty. Adam breathes a sigh of relief. I set his bag on the floor and he gingerly removes his guitar, leaning it next to my shelf of records.

"What happened?" I ask.

Adam sniffs. His cheeks and nose are red from the chill. He sits on the edge of the bed. "The hospital kept me for a week for observation to make sure I wasn't 'a threat to myself or others.'"

I kneel at his feet so I can peer up into his face. "Then you went home?"

His mouth twists uncomfortably. Casper is a talker. She can talk a lot, and she can talk honestly. I can talk, but I trip over my words and sometimes say more than I mean to. But Adam...I can physically see the effort it takes for him to open his mouth and force out the words. He's spent so much of his life not being seen, not being heard, that he's forgotten how to realize anything he says does hold weight and is important.

I try to help him along by asking, "Did she kick you out?"

Adam shakes his head. " Sort...of?" He takes a deep breath. "When we got home, she was so mad. She said I was selfish because she had lost dad and I almost made her lose her son. I told her...she'd lost me a long time ago. She gave me an ultimatum. If I wanted to keep living there, I had to go to therapy. Like, at a rehab center."