Tristan steps inside with me, my hand still grasped in his, and stays silent.
I look around the room, taking in all his old video game posters. Clothes cover most of the floor, and his bed is unmade. All the poor kid wanted was to sleep until noon on the weekends, hang with his friends, and play video games. Now he’s stuck living at the hospital. He’s hooked up to machines and fighting to stay alive.
I blow out a breath, my chest heavy and my eyes watering again. “This isn’t fair,” I whisper.
“I know,” Tristan murmurs, squeezing my hand. After another few minutes, he guides me out of the room and down the hall until I stop at my closed bedroom door.
“You can’t laugh,” I say in a tired voice.
He peers at me. “Why would I laugh?”
“Just promise me you won’t.”
He brushes the back of his hand across my cheek. “I promise.”
I nod and open the door before stepping inside. Everything is a different shade of purple. The bedding, the curtains, my desk—everything. “I haven’t lived here for, like, three and a half years,” I say as though it’s some form of explanation.
He presses his lips together against a smile. “Sure,” he says. “It’s . . . nice.”
“Oh hush, it’s overwhelmingly purple. It’s terrible.”
Tristan shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the chair at my desk, and slowly unbuttons his white collared dress shirt. “It’s fine, Rory.”
I sigh, guilt trickling in. I don’t care about my room right now. Not when Adam is stuck sleeping on a hospital bed instead of his own. “I’ll go grab you something to wear.” I slip out of the room and find a pair of sweatpants and one of my dad’s old T-shirts.
When I return to my room and close the door, I find Tristan sitting shirtless on the end of my bed.
It takes me a minute to find my voice; my head is in too many places right now. “I found these. I’m pretty sure they’ll fit.” I toss the shirt and pants at him and turn away, walking to my dresser to find something for me to wear to bed. I sneak into the bathroom across the hall and change into an old hoodie from high school and a pair of worn gray leggings. My reflection in the mirror makes me pause. I cringe at the smudged eyeliner and black tear stains running down both of my cheeks from the excessive amount of mascara I had on for the gala. My hair is still curled and set around my face, which makes it look odd. I grab a makeup wipe and do my best to get rid of it before flicking off the light on my way out.
Tristan is dressed this time when I walk into the room. I turn the lamp on and turn off the main light, giving the room a soft golden glow.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he says, stepping toward the door.
I pick at the hem of my hoodie. “You don’t have to sleep in the guest room.”
“It’s not a problem, Rory.”
I look away. “What if I want you to stay with me?”
“You’ve had a long day.” His tone is gentle.
I press my lips together. “Stay. Please.”
“I don’t want to upset your parents.”
“They sleep downstairs. So long as you don’t snore obnoxiously loud or something, they won’t have reason to come up here and check where you’re sleeping.”
He exhales slowly, nodding. “Okay.” He watches me crawl into my bed, then walks around to the other side and sits on top of the bedding.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I whisper.
He nods. “That’s understandable.” He reaches over and tucks my hair away from my face.
“My head is spinning so fast right now. I’m trying to figure this whole thing out, but I know there’s no explanation.”
He frowns. “You’re right. There isn’t. You’re doing what you can, Rory. You’re here with your family.”
“But I can’t help him,” I whisper as I lie back and stretch out my legs. “I . . .” I choke on a sob, and turn my face to look at him.
His eyes search mine as he gets under the sheets and lies on his side, and then he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. There’s plenty of room for two people in my queen-sized bed, but Tristan is pressed right against me; I’m not about to ask him to move.
I press my face into the crook of his neck and cling to him.
He holds on to me until the sobbing quiets. I knew the silence would come in time, after crying for so long, but the fear of the unknown still weighs on my chest.
He cups my cheek in his hand and draws my face away so that I’m looking at him. An idea hits me so fast I don’t have time to register it before I say, “Can you use magic to heal him?”
Tristan’s face falls. “Sweetheart, no, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“But you healed me—the day we met after Max hurt me—you healed me.”
“You had cuts and bruises and a mild concussion. I can heal those injuries, but I can’t fix this. Fae magic is powerful, but it can’t cure cancer or sickness.”
It’s not fair. What the hell is so great about having magic if it can’t cure a human illness?
My bottom lip trembles. “I thought . . .” My voice breaks off, and more tears spring free, rolling down my cheeks.
Tristan swipes the tears off my face with his thumbs. “You should get some sleep,” he says softly.
I shake my head. “I can’t sleep.” I try to shift away from him so I can get up. “I should go back to the hospital and wait for visiting hours. That way I’m there when he wakes up.”
He sighs. “Aurora, I don’t think you should sit at the hospital all night.”
“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” I snap, sitting up.
He runs his hand up and down my arm. “Let me help you,” he murmurs.
“How?” I ask, my voice trembling with a fresh onslaught of tears.
“You trust me?” he checks.
“You know I do.”
A faint smile touches his lips. “Lie back and close your eyes.”
I follow his instruction and reach for his hand. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere, Rory.” He snakes his arm around my waist and pulls me back against him. “I’m going to help you sleep, all right?”
“Okay.” I hug the arm he has wrapped around me.
He leans in and whispers words into my ear, soft and lulling, until exhaustion floods in, and I drift off into a black, dreamless sleep.
The following morning, I wake up in a tangle of limbs. My pulse increases as I become aware that my legs are wrapped around one of Tristan’s. Not only that, but my arms hug his midsection, and my cheek is pressed against his chest. His heart beats against my ear as his chest rises and falls in time with the rhythm.
Glancing around while trying to keep my head still, I try to think of a way to get off the bed without waking him. I pull back, freeing one arm, but he’s lying on the other. I flick my eyes to his face to make sure his eyes are still closed, and I shift to the side so I can slip my legs free. Of course, I lean too far back and lose my balance. I’m heading for the hardwood floor, and I’m going to smack my tailbone hard.
At the last minute, Tristan grabs my wrist and pulls me back onto the bed.