“I think we made him.” Kincaid keeps his gaze down as we follow the tracks, chin in his collar. “Like, people. How shitty we are. Poured out of the vials of the wrath of God, right. Where’s Trace when you need some good blasphemy?”

It has the ring of a bad charm, said aloud out here, in the isolation. Like an invitation, pushed beneath the door to something forever with its eye to the keyhole, its pupil a reptilian slit.

My hands are ice, freezing air leaving a taste of iron in my mouth as we cross from land to granite, the wind blasting us again now that we’re on the bridge platform, stripped of tree cover. Our jack-o’-lanterns still form a line along the railing. I hug my coat around me. “Crap. Don’t tell me this is becoming ‘our place.’”

It’s a risky joke, assuming too much, but I want that concept out of my head, vials of the wrath of God. He smiles slightly but doesn’t look at me, giving a slow nod. “You’re very funny.”

“Wow. Add a little pat on the head, and I’d feel super special.” I cut my eyes at him. “And since when aren’t you an easy laugh?”

The corner of his mouth goes up a bit more. “I think you joke around to cover how you really feel about stuff.”

“Kind of like why you tell stories?” He doesn’t answer. I shrug, looking off at the water, slate-colored under the overcast sky. “Maybe I just keep myself to myself, you know?” I don’t have to say just like you; he turns to me, and we bump into each other, his hands steadying my shoulders. I look into his eyes as another one of those steel raindrops spikes my lashes, making me blink. “Not that I’m mysterious or cool at all.”

He lowers his head to look at me closely, the teasing light in his expression again. “You. You are an unknown quantity.”

Our noses are nearly touching; wonder how he broke his, why he didn’t bother to make sure it healed straight. “Well,” I say, “that new-kid smell wears off after a while. Fair warning.” We both laugh a little, and his hands cup my face, crossing beyond friendly touch, and oh God, I’m going over the edge again, maybe not so different from surrendering to dreams, that warm pull of sleep, how our heat blends as we kiss—his lips as chapped as his hands, like I knew they’d be, because he’s always outside, the wind always taking from him. At first, it’s soft, both a question and a confirmation, then harder, our heads angling together to go deeper, his fingers in my hair.

We pause for breath, me looking back at him, so dazed that I say, “Do you even know my last name?”