Page 101 of The Endless Want

Liam’s voice comes through comms: “Pull back. West route. No stragglers.”

For the first time in weeks, something unclenches in my chest. We did something right. We did something together.

By the time we’re back at the vehicles, adrenaline is fading, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion. I peel off my gloves and stare at the city lights, thinking of her. Thinking of the way she held one hand to her stomach earlier without realizing she’d done it. Thinking of the tiny photograph she’d tucked into her planner.

Thinking of the way I’d wanted to touch her more than I wanted to breathe.

Conor calls me an hour later to check in. He sounds too serious, which usually means he’s worried. “You good?” he asks.

“No,” I answer, because lying is pointless with him. “But I’m managing.”

He exhales. “Visit her.”

“I’ll see her tomorrow.”

“Not what I said.”

“I’m not barging into her place in the middle of the night like some lunatic.”

“You’re in love with her.”

“That’s not—” I stop, rub my forehead. “Goodnight, Conor.”

He only sighs. “Sort it out before it’s too late.”

I hang up before he can say anything else.

The drive back to Ailish’s safehouse is muscle memory now. Fifteen minutes of empty streets and streetlamps smeared with rain. I shouldn’t go, but my steering wheel turns as if it has its own orders.

I park. I sit there for a long time, rain pattering on the windshield like someone tapping their fingers against glass. I tell myself I’ll leave soon. I won’t go inside. I won’t make her uncomfortable. I won’t⁠—

My phone buzzes.

Ailish; You’re outside.

Ailish; Stay.

The breath leaves me in one long, unsteady exhale. She saw me. And she didn’t tell me to go.

I step out of the car, climb the steps, and slip inside when the guard opens the door. The house is dim and quiet. I don’t go to her room. I don’t knock. I don’t even look toward the hallway where she sleeps.

Instead, I drop onto the couch. Stretch out. Close my eyes.

Sleep hits hard. And for the first time in months—it isn’t violent.

It’s Ailish. Standing in sunlight. Laughing at something I can’t hear. Hand resting over her belly.

Mine.

I wake before dawn, stiff and half-tangled in a blanket someone must have thrown over me. For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. The shadows in the room are still blue and quiet. The faint hum of the refrigerator murmurs through the kitchen. The couch beneath me is softer than the ones I grew up on, but not soft enough to account for the ache in my spine.

Then I hear it.

A soft pad of footsteps upstairs. Like she’s trying not to disturb me, even though she doesn’t know I’m awake.

Everything in my body goes still the way it always does when she’s near—as if I’m waiting for an impact I can see coming but can’t avoid. The dream clings to the edges of my mind. Her laughter, her warmth, the way she looked happy in the sunlight.

I know better than to trust dreams. But the feeling lingers.