He waves me off and heads toward the bathroom. It’s only then I notice the scratches running up his arm. The nick at his temple, and the flecks of dried blood begging to be brushed off. I don’t realize I’ve moved until I already have him cornered in the hall. My hand is a vice around his forearm, and his body heat seeps into my touch. He shivers, and I want to apologize for always being so damn cold.

“Way?” he says warily.

He’s still calling me Way, I think distantly.

I gently turn his arm over in my hand. “You were on your bike.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I force my gaze up. His brows are lifted and a weird look passes through his eyes. Right, I think. Obviously he was on his bike.

My stomach twists. “Did you crash?” And as if to answer, lightning cracks loudly from outside, and I flinch. I imagine it’s his motorcycle colliding with a tree. His skull...

His brows knit as he slowly shakes his head. “Not really. The wind started picking up, and my tire got caught on a rogue branch. I was able to get her under control and pull off to the side before any real damage was done. I was close enough to the bar, but not home.” He waves a hand down his body. “So here I am, in the flesh. No worse for wear.” His mouth quirks up. It’s familiar and cocky and I kind of want to punch it right off his face.

My throat feels oddly tight. I glance down at the arm I’m still holding and force myself back a step. “And those?” I tighten my hold as I flick my fingers at the side of his head. “That?”

A chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. “I got in a fight with a picker bush when trying to secure my bike.”

I blink long and hard. “Right. Well.” I turn around, feeling like a jackass. “There’s a first-aid kit under the sink if you need it, or whatever. I’m going to find some candles.”

My eyes slide shut just as the words escape my mouth. I already know what’s coming.

Only it never does.

I reluctantly look over my shoulder. Hooded blue eyes stare back at me, cast in shadow. That seemingly ever-present rope between us gives a mighty tug, and I have to dig my heels in the hardwood so as not to storm over there and—

I slam a steel door against that thought.

It’s not real, I tell myself for what is probably the umpteenth time since he came back. More so since that morning on the bridge. He’s just another bottle of whiskey, one I stumbled upon at an age where I could no better tell coping from escape. Reality from hope.