POV: Chloe

He didn't speak again on the drive home. Neither did I. His words hung between us in the dark—now you care.

I sat with the heavy guilt of them. I didn't have a good comeback, because he wasn't wrong, and we both knew it.

Inside the house—my house, built from words I'd spoken at twenty-two—I found the first aid kit myself. And I pointed at the kitchen island.

"Sit."

"Chloe—"

"Sit, Tristan!" I snapped.

He sat.

His expression shifted. He looked surprised, faintly amused, and quietly pleased. He couldn't hide it before I caught it.

I cleaned the raw wound in silence. The blood was still welling up,...