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I lie there with that word sitting in my head.

He's never said it. I've never said it. It's not a thing we say. We say truth and whistle and yes. We say six.

But I know what it looks like when somebody takes a step out of the crease.

I'm not going to tell him. Not yet. Because if he knows about Cole's text, he'll do something, and if he does something, it's Mikey in his uncle's shop in Flint.

Two weeks. Maybe less. One more win and it's over.

At three, I get up.

My ankle's stiff. I limp across the hall in the dark, past the bathroom, and I stand outside his door.

There's no light under it. I don't knock. I just open it, slowly, and slip in, and shut it behind me.

The window's open. Of course. It's freezing.

He's awake. I can see the shine of his eyes in the light from the streetlamp outside. He's lying on his back, looking at me. He doesn't ask.

He just pulls back the blanket.

I get in. I put my face in his neck. He puts his arm around me.

My phone's still in my hand. I don't know why I brought it. I put it down on the nightstand, screen down, next to his.

24

DANE

He's cold. His feet are like ice. He's shaking, and I don't think it's the window.

I hold him. I don't say anything. I've learned that much. When he comes to me like this, at three in the morning without knocking, he doesn't want questions. He wants a place to put himself down.

His breath is hot on my neck. His fingers are curled in my T-shirt. I rub my hand up and down his back, slow, over his spine, until the shaking eases off.

Then he kisses my throat.

Not soft. He sets his teeth against it and bites, just under my jaw, hard enough that I suck in a breath. His hand comes down my stomach and pushes under the waistband of my boxers, and he wraps his fingers around me, and I'm hard before I've even decided anything.

"Theo—"

He kisses me. He climbs on top of me and kisses me like he's trying to crawl inside my mouth, both hands in my hair, his hips grinding down against mine. He's hard. He's shaking again. His mouth tastes like salt.

He's been crying.

I take his face in both hands and pull back an inch. In the streetlight, his eyes are wet and dark and a long way away.

"Where are you?" I say.

"Here."

"Truth."

"Here." He presses his forehead against mine. "I'm here. I want you. Please don't make me talk. Please. I just want you."

I should stop. I know it. There's something under this, something heavy, and he's using me to keep from looking at it.

But he's asking. He's saying please. And I don't know how to tell him no when he's asking me for something.