Looking over at Tate, her back is still to me as she sleeps, and I start to sit up.

“No,” she groans and rolls over, “don’t leave.” And she puts an arm over my waist, and I stiffen right there, afraid to move.

Damn, damn, damn! I’m about to explode, and I need to leave. Every morning this happens, and I’m so frustrated.

Don’t touch me, Tate. Please.

But I let her anyway. She guides me back down as she nestles her head in my neck and falls back asleep.

My eyes snapped open, blinking, as I felt the same familiar blood rushing south and the burning deep below my stomach.

I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, shaking the dream from my head.

Or, the memory.

Tate.

I sit up, scanning the dark room.

Where was she?

I was in her bed. We’d fallen asleep after my confession, and that dream was of the last time I’d laid in here with her. The morning I’d left for my father’s for the summer.

But she wasn’t here now.

And there was no light coming from her bathroom, either.

“Tate,” I called out but got no answer. The only sound was the pitter-patter of rain on the roof.

Getting up, I stretched my arms over my head, walked out of her bedroom and down the darkened stairs.

Light was scarce, but it didn’t matter. I could navigate this house in the dark.

Even if it weren’t for the fact that I’d spent so much time here in the past, the Brandts’ house always seemed alive. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer, the creak of the stairs, the soft, muffled humming that came from the vents—they all gave each room its own personality and made this place a home.

I was comfortable here.

The living room and dining room were empty as I strolled past each, so I went into the kitchen and instantly saw the open back door.

Walking over, I peered out into the garden, and immediately broke out in a smile at the sight of Tate, drenched and standing in the downpour with her head tilted up to the sky.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 677