I lurch backward. Caz’s eyes flutter open, his gaze focusing on me, night black and intent. I feel a little shaky under the weight of it. “Where are you going?” he asks. “To, um.” My voice is failing. “To clean up—” “Stay,” he whispers, the word falling so fast from his lips it could be instinct, a slip of the tongue, a mistake. He looks almost surprised himself, almost shy, though he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t run away, the way I would. And it’s only when I see the tense, rolling motion in his throat that I realize just how hard it is for him to be witnessed in his current raw, weakened
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