Adam walks me to my room.

It’s been lights-out for about an hour now, and, with the exception of faint emergency lights glowing every few feet, everything is, quite literally, out.

It’s absolute blackness, and even still, the guards on patrol manage to spot us only to warn us to go straight to our separate quarters.

Adam and I don’t really speak until we reach the mouth of the women’s wing. There’s so much tension, so many unspoken worries between us. So many thoughts about today and tomorrow and the many weeks we’ve already spent together. So much we don’t know about what’s already happening to us and what will eventually happen to us. Just looking at him, being so close and being so far away from him—it’s painful.

I want so desperately to bridge the gap between our bodies. I want to press my lips to every part of him and I want to savor the scent of his skin, the strength in his limbs, in his heart. I want to wrap myself in the warmth and reassurance I’ve come to rely on.

But.

In other ways, I’ve come to realize that being away from him has forced me to rely on myself. To allow myself to be scared and to find my own way through it. I’ve had to train without him, fight without him, face Warner and Anderson and the chaos of my mind all without him by my side. And I feel different now. I feel stronger since putting space between us.

And I don’t know what that means.

All I know is that it’ll never be safe for me to rely on someone else again, to need constant reassurance of who I am and who I might someday be. I can love him, but I can’t depend on him to be my backbone. I can’t be my own person if I constantly require someone else to hold me together.

My mind is a mess. Every single day I’m confused, uncertain, worried I’m going to make a new mistake, worried I’m going to lose control, worried I’m going to lose myself. But it’s something I have to work through. Because for the rest of my life, I’ll always, always be stronger than everyone around me.

But at least I’ll never have to be scared anymore.

“Are you going to be okay?” Adam asks, finally dispelling the silence between us. I look up to find that his eyes are worried, trying to read me.

“Yes,” I tell him. “Yes. I’m going to be fine.” I offer him a tight smile, but it feels wrong to be this close to him without being able to touch him at all.

Adam nods. Hesitates. Says, “It’s been one hell of a night.” “And it’ll be one hell of day tomorrow, too,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, still looking at me like he’s trying to find something, like he’s searching for an answer to an unspoken question and I wonder if he sees something different in my eyes now. He grins a small grin. Says, “I should probably go,” and nods at James bundled in his arms.

I nod, not sure what else to do. What to say. So much is uncertain.

“We’ll get through this,” Adam says, answering my silent thoughts. “All of it. We’re going to be okay. And Kenji will be fine.” He touches my shoulder, allows his fingers to trail down my arm and stop just short of my bare hand.

I close my eyes, try to savor the moment.

And then his fingers graze my skin and my eyes fly open, my heart racing in my chest.

He’s staring at me like he might’ve done much more than touch my hand if he weren’t holding James against his chest.

“Adam—”

“I’m going to find a way,” he says to me. “I’m going to find a way to make this work. I promise. I just need some time.”

I’m afraid to speak. Afraid of what I might say, what I might do; afraid of the hope ballooning inside of me.

“Good night,” he whispers. “Good night,” I say.

I’m beginning to think of hope as a dangerous, terrifying thing.