"I –" he stopped mid-sentence, clearly recalling the memory, before dropping his head. "Fuck."

"Yeah," I agreed flatly, folding my arms across my chest protectively. "Fuck."

"Well, I didn’t forget you on purpose!"

"No, you just forgot to remember me by accident, right?"

"I screwed up, okay!" Hooking an arm around my waist, he pulled me flush against his big body and the contact was far too much. "I'm done doing that, Molls." He leaned his brow against mine, eyes closed, breathing shallow. "I'm done forgetting us."

Unable to stop myself, I closed my eyes and let my weight sag against him. I let him hold me. I didn’t push back. Common sense had no place in this moment. "Please don’t pretend you care. Not now. Not after two years of indifference."

"I wasn’t indifferent, Molly! I didn’t know –"

"You keep telling yourself that if it helps ease your conscience, but we both know the truth."

He flinched. "Molls –"

"It's okay," I was quick to concede, holding my hands up, desperate to end this painful conversation. "It doesn’t even matter anymore." Jerking away from him, I pulled at my sleeves and moved for my window, needing to put some extra space between my splintered soul and the boy that represented my walking heartache. "We were friends a million years ago. It's in the past."

"Eight years ago," he corrected gruffly. "Not a million, and you were my best friend, Molly."

Pain ricocheted through me. "Yeah, Daryl, and you were mine."

"I'm fucking sorry, Molly!" He exhaled a pained breath. "This is killing me. Knowing that I hurt you like this?" He shook his head. "Losing you almost killed me," he admitted, voice torn.

"Yeah." I kept my back to him, staring blindly out the window into the darkness. "I'm familiar with the feeling."

8 Daryl

Gabe Owens had a habit of telling me and Rourke that life was a waiting game, and if we waited long enough, everything would work out the way god planned it to.

I wasn’t sure if that was bullshit or not, but I knew that I had been waiting my whole life for this exact moment.

For her to come back to me.

Barely clocking five feet tall, Molly looked frailer than I remembered when we were kids.

She hasn't grown much, I mentally acknowledged, as my gaze swept over her tiny frame. When we were young, she was petite, but now? Now, she looked downright delicate.

Dainty.

She was wearing an ankle length, white dress and scuffed Doc Martin boots. A long-sleeved purple cardigan was draped around her thin shoulders.

Jesus Christ, her clothes were horrendous.

But the girl beneath them was ethereal.

Almost angelic.

A creature that had been sent by god himself to torture me.

"It's okay, Daryl," she continued to say, keeping her back to me. "You can go on downstairs and join Rourke and the guys. Consider the air cleared between us and the chapter closed."

No, no, no, no, fuck no!