“My mom has a date,” he says, his chin once again resting on my head, his thumbs caressing small circles along the small of my back.

“Oh yeah?” I say, having a hard time seeing Owen’s mom do anything other than work. In the year I lived next to her, I think I saw her ten times, her eyes always heavy, her body always thin and fatigued.

“You’ll never guess who with,” he says, his tone all I need to know. I can’t help but grin against his chest. I told Owen about what I had learned, about how Mr. Chessman knew his family. I wanted him to know how much he loved working with his father, and how much he respected them all. He needed to know that there were people out there that saw past the wild—people who saw the good. I didn’t mention my suspicions about how Mr. Chessman felt, the way I saw him look at Owen’s mom. But I think that will all work itself out without me.

“You’re kidding?” I say, stepping back and looking up at him again. I love how he towers over me.

“Not kidding. I just feel really bad for Andrew. His teacher is dating his mom, I mean…wow, right?” Owen says, his chest raspy with laughter.

“He’s only his teacher part of the time,” I say, as if that somehow makes it better.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, brushing his thumb over my cheek, his eyes doing that thing where they zero in on me and me alone, the rest of the world fading away. We’ve quit swaying an entire song ago, the pretense of dancing long gone. We’re standing in the middle of the crowded dance floor holding each other, and looking at each other wanting more. I can tell by the way Owen’s breathing, by the way everything about him, about us, slows. Owen draws his finger down my chin to my neck, looping it under the small key charm resting at the bottom of my necklace between my breasts. He pulls the key up to his mouth, biting it in his teeth, his brow lowering and his lips curling.

“You think those two will notice if we ditch them, head back to my room?” Owen finally says, my body reacting as it always does.

“Willow has a key; I think they’ll be fine,” I say, glancing over at my friends, who are settled even lower in their booth, content to stay there until the sun rises I’m sure. My response is enough for him, and he sweeps his arm around me, tucking me against his side, guiding me through the crowd of football fans still pouring into the bar.

We walk the few blocks to his dorm, the same chill in the air that was there the first night I kissed him, the night he gave me the bracelet I still wear every day. I love it when he sees me in it, and I love how he kisses my wrist, like he is right now, as he slips it from my skin.

I love how he watches me, how he watches over me, fights for me, and makes me a better version of myself.

I love him.

Truth is, Owen Harper shot me through the heart that day he pointed his finger at me and pulled the trigger. I fell for him then, and I’ve been falling every day since. All I wanted was for him to catch me.

And he did.

THE END