The way I have to yell, to pull her firmly against me tears at my soul, but I’m not getting through to her. I let go of her and reach out, grabbing her face, and that at least gets her to stop struggling.

“I’m with you,” I whisper, bending at my knees to get her focus. “Rebels only. I’m on your team.”

All the light in her eyes goes out, and how it’s possible for her face to crack more, I’ll never know, but I’ll also never forget it.

“But you play for him.”

* * *

I wake with a jolt in sheer panic. It doesn’t last long, thank god. Because Parker is nestled against my chest, the warmth of her body a stark contrast against the coolness of my t-shirt she lies on, barely dry from the abundance of her tears.

Light comes through the window, but it’s faint. The sun must be rising. I should be happy we made it. But nothing, not even Parker’s breath against me, her warm legs wound with mine, could wash the taste from my mouth.

“He told my parents to put me there.”

I feel nauseous, so I slide out from beneath her, making my way out of the door we slept with wide open. I stumble outside where the lights are still on in the living room, where Parker’s letters remain untouched on the dining table. I turn, about to head upstairs to use that shower instead of the one down here so I don’t wake her, but before I take my first step, I pause.

“There’s carpeting on the stairs and outside it. It makes it too hard to hear someone coming.”

Bringing my foot to the floor, I march over to the entry closet, reach up to the top shelf, and pull down the toolbox. With the hammer secure in one hand and a box cutter in the other, I return to the steps and drop to my knees.

Digging the claw of the hammer into the base of the first step, I begin to rip up the carpet. It’s a tough-ass job. It hurts, and I nearly whack myself in the face with the hammer. But slowly, I make my way up the stairs, releasing the runner from the hardwood.

By the time I reach the landing, I have to lean against the railing, feeling weak from the intensity of the night.

“W-what are you doing?” she asks, coming out of the room. She’s still in the robe, her hair going a hundred different ways.

I wouldn’t have her any other way. Never.

I rotate the handle of the hammer back and forth. “I’m getting rid of everything that makes hard days harder for you,” I say. “I hated this design anyway.”

“Fitz—”

“But if I do this, I need you to promise me one thing.”