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It was the most exposed I’d allowed myself to be with her in a long, long time.

I knew I was responsible for her being unable to fly. Probably more so than Silas was.

Because I had her trapped.

Trapped by the reckless thing that blazed between us just like it was doing right then.

“How could you ever think I’d be happy without you?”

I struggled to fight off the energy that vied to knit us into one fabric and instead tried to play it light. Like any of this was a joke.

“Heathen, remember?”

I’d earned that name for a reason.

Her fingertips were soft as she brought them up and brushed them along the stubble on my jaw. “My favorite heathen.”

There was a plea seeded in it.

One every part of me wanted to give in to.

“And you’ll always be my favorite little apple.”

Life in the middle of a barren, destitute plane.

Something suddenly sizzled and splashed on the stovetop. It sent me scattering back, and my attention darted to the pot to find the soup boiling over.

“Oh, crap,” Elena cried as she spun back around. Flustered, she flipped off the burner then drove the spoon back into the pot. Stirring quickly to settle the concoction down.

“I don’t think it’s too scorched,” she mumbled, almost frantic.

No question, she’d been as caught up as I had been.

Lost to that place where we couldn’t go.

I attempted to shuck it off. To pretend like I didn’t feel the whisper of her floating through my veins.

“You know I’ll love anything you make. Didn’t expect you to cook for me. Thought that was going to be my job.”

“I don’t let heathens cook in my kitchen.” She sent me a lopsided grin.

God, that knowing tenderness had my heart nearly busting out of my chest.

“Yet you let me sleep on your bedroom floor?” I tried to play it wry.

She gruffed a haggard laugh. “That was all you, buddy. I didn’t know you snuck in.”

“You want me to stay out?” My tone drifted into seriousness.

The shake of her head was quick. “I think you know better than that.”

My throat felt thick, and she turned away and moved to the small cupboard to her left, her back to me as she opened it and pulled down two bowls.

Then she shuffled back to the stove, grabbed a ladle from a canister on the counter, and began to scoop big spoonfuls into the first bowl.

Her voice was quiet as she whispered, “Don’t ever suggest that being separated from my family would be better for me. They are my heart, Trevan. My life. They are the happiness you want me to have.”

And I knew by her expression as she glanced my way that I was included in that. That I was a piece of her. And it was far too fucking late to stop it from happening.