Quickly, I crouch to Xander, who groans and cups his nose. Lanky at six-foot-two, he’s pretty scrawny for fifteen—and without pause, I lift him in my arms. He tucks his head into my chest with some type of familiarity, seeking safety in my clutch. As though he knows exactly who I am without checking. I’m almost whiplashed with how many years I’ve spent protecting him, and as I carry Xander down the hill, I feel like he’s nine-years-old again. He’s safe.
