JUNE — POV
After everything, after the gasps and whispers and heat of it all, I finally feel like I can breathe.
The storm in my head, the voices, the flashes of violence and grief—they've all quieted down. I lie tangled in the sheets, tangled in him, in the warmth of skin and silence. My body aches in a good way. My mind, for once, is still. Sane.
I stare at the ceiling, his breath steady beside me. I can feel it on my shoulder, the steady rhythm of someone safe, someone mine. It's almost enough to keep the thoughts from crawling back. Almost.
But I need to know.
I need answers.
Because I remember now.
Not everything. Not all of it. But enough.
Enough to make me shake. Enough to realize how close I came to never knowing.
He's Number Nine.
My Number Nine.
The boy who always held my hand when the lights went out. The boy who I stole food for. The boy who whispered promises in the dark, telling me he'd find a way out. Telling me he'd protect me.
He did.
