The wait for him to open the door is excruciating. It takes him so long to answer that I start to doubt if he's even home, so I walk around the side of the house to peer through the window. The room, as usual, is hazy with smoke, which tells me he's been here recently, but the place is too quiet for him to be inside.

Biting my lip, I think about where else he could be. I'm not about to go on some search mission, but I don't want to leave without checking he's okay. I get out my phone and text Liv about my predicament, who immediately messages back.

Indecision wars inside of me. If I had any sense, I'd go home and focus on what's left of the campaign, but clearly, I'm stupid because I get in my car and head in the direction of the bridge. When I see it nearing in the distance, I park on the side road closest to the bridge and make the rest of the way on foot. It's late by now, the sky a dark blue veil mottled with clouds, so it's impossible to see whether Blake is on the bridge or if I came here for nothing.

As I get closer, so does the outline of a figure resting on the railing, about twenty feet away. I slowly walk over, praying it's Blake looking pensively at the river, not some axe murderer. It's only when I'm a few feet away that my eyes adjust to the dark. Blake stands before me in a plain black jacket and faded blue jeans. He half-turns from the railing, and his eyes flit to mine, dark and laced with surprise.

I study his face as though I haven't seen him in years, committing his features to memory. He looks the same as always: pronounced jaw, sharp cheekbones, and hair that looks like he's just woken up, but the hint of a bruise dusting his right eye is unfamiliar. Clearly, Chase got at least one good punch in.

My heart feels ready to burst from my throat. It's strange how that happens: you can be so convinced in your hatred for someone, only for one look to unravel you. Right now, despite every cutting word I'd rehearsed in my head, one look has rendered me silent.

Blake's face is like he's seen a ghost. Behind him, the night is dark, save for the joint smoking gently on the railing, a burning ember in the shadows. I glance at his hand as he clamps down on the barrier, noting the red, mottled bruise. My eyes snap to his, which bore into mine like an endless abyss. Part of me knows that us being alone screams bad idea, and yet there is no one else I'd rather be alone with.

With everything I'd rehearsed gone from my head, there is only one question I can think of to ask. "How could you be so stupid?"

"I've done a lot of stupid things lately," he says. "You'll have to be a little more specific."

I don't say anything as I stare at him. Something settles over me, this feeling I've missed these past few days, like I'm finally home. It's the same feeling I'd always gotten in his basement, as though the place served as a sanctuary, somewhere I could be unapologetically myself: no rules, no expectations, no overbearing parents, just me. But as it turns out, it wasn't the basement that made me feel that way.

It was him.

Without thinking, I grab his hand to examine the damage. It doesn't look hospital-visit-worthy, but I can tell from where his knuckle split that it has to be painful. "You know what I'm talking about." I drop my hand because touching him feels far too familiar, and right now, I need to think straight. "You got suspended for hitting Chase. Again."

Blake is silent as he looks to the river before looking back. He seems exhausted, as though he hasn't had a decent sleep in days, and I can't help but wonder whether it's because of us or if something else kept him up. "Look," he says, his voice low, "I'm sorry for jeopardizing the campaign." He shakes his head as though he's a little disappointed with himself. "That kid just brings out the worst in me."

A flicker of anger I've been trying to suppress works its way to the surface. That's why he thinks I'm here, I realize. He thinks I'm mad that his fight with Chase will undermine the campaign as if the campaign is more important than anything. And sure, maybe once upon a time, it was, but not anymore; it hurts he'd even think that.

"I'm not mad at you for overshadowing the campaign," I say. "Nothing that happens now will make a difference to Wednesday. I'm mad at you for risking your future for this. I'm mad that you got suspended, Blake."

Blake grips the railing, looking out into the black abyss of water. There is something he wants to say, I can tell, but as usual, he restrains himself. For a moment or two, he doesn't say anything. Silence stretches between us, as cold and as vast as the river before us. Just when I'm about to give up, he turns.

"I didn't plan it, alright?" he says. "I went to the store last night, saw him in the parking lot with his friend, and I lost it. But you know what?" He turns now, stepping closer—my breath hitches. "That kid deserved everything he got, and if he so much as looks at you wrong, I'll fucking do it again."

My heart surges, at this point, it's unavoidable, but I can't help but feel this is wrong. It's like a confession without being a confession. A gesture I didn't want. As usual, Blake isn't able to confront his feelings, so he does it with his fists instead. And right here, right now, that's not enough.

"Look, I appreciate you sticking up for me," I say, "but maybe try to keep your fists out of it next time."

He gives me a ghost of a smile. "No promises."

I look away, knowing that if I look at him a second longer, I'll say something I'll later regret. "I should go," I say at last. "I just came to see if you were okay, and you are, so–" I start to turn, but Blake's hand darts out and grabs my arm before spinning me into him.

"Wait," he says, looking down at me, and I feel my heart crumble a little. "That's why you came? To check on me?"

"Why else would I be standing on a bridge at night?" I ask. The way he's still touching my arm makes me nervous. More than nervous. Vulnerable.

He tugs me closer with a look of disbelief. "I thought you hated me."

I look up slowly as if afraid to meet his gaze. "Is that why you haven't bothered to message me? Or call? Is that why you disappeared?"

Surprise replaces disbelief. He opens his mouth, then closes it again like he doesn't know what to say. "I didn't think you'd want to talk to me."

All I can do for a good three seconds is blink at him. It's hard to believe that any boy is as clueless regarding relationships as Blake, but what do I expect? He hasn't exactly had any role models for this kind of thing.

"So you didn't even try?" I ask. That's what hurts here – the lack of effort. I wasn't ready to accept his apology that night – and who could blame me – but maybe if he'd tried again, I could have forgiven him eventually. I could have seen that perhaps he cared after all. Instead, he disappeared, leaving me with nothing but doubt. "I wanted you to try," I say. "I wanted you to be at my window throwing rocks or telling me how sorry you were, but instead, you've been AWOL."

"I was going to," he says, and the clench of his jaw suggests that whatever he's about to say will not be easy for him. He searches my face, looking as though he's waging some internal war, before his eyes flash as if to say Screw it. "I wanted to tell you I was stupid to make that deal with Chase. That I can't fucking stand to be in that basement without you, and if I could, I'd take it back."

My eyes search his face for a sign he's being dishonest, but there is nothing but sincerity in his eyes. It's still not enough. "So why didn't you tell me that?"

"Because," he says, looking away, "it wouldn't have made a difference. Face it, Rose. This–" he looks back and gestures between us "–doesn't make sense. You're practically Mother Theresa with your campaigning and tutoring and all the other shit you do, and until you came along, I didn't care about anyone. Hell, I make half of my money by scamming people. On what planet," he says, leaning closer, "does someone like me end up with you?"

My heart cracks a little as I look him in the eye. I'm no psychologist, but something tells me this is an attempt at self-sabotage, and even if nothing happens between us, even if what we were ends up dying on this bridge, I refuse to let him believe it was because he wasn't good enough.

"You've done some questionable things," I say slowly, "and you are infuriatingly stubborn and anti-everything, but you are also the only person I've been able to count on. You were there for me, Blake. You were there for me when nobody else was. Whatever deal you made with Chase doesn't change that."

For a moment, he stares at me, neither of us speaking. I can see some internal debate behind his eyes, turning my words over and inspecting them for the truth. Right now, it's easy to see the damage his broken upbringing caused, and I hate it.

He reaches out to cup my face, searching my eyes with urgency. "I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is warm and thick with emotion. "I'm so fucking sorry, Rose."

I don't know how it happens or who initiates it; I just know that one second he's looking at me, eyes dark and filled with every emotion, and the next, my lips are brushing his. Every inch of my body explodes with heat, because obviously, I was wrong. Not only is the spark still there, but it's brighter than ever.

"I should go," I murmur against his lips, and somehow, I find the strength to pull away. "It's late, and with the election–"

He doesn't say anything, but even though I can tell it pains him, he nods. I turn around, because even though part of me wants to stay on this bridge, now isn't the time to decide what happens next. I need to focus on my campaign, getting through election day, and proving that I'm the right candidate for this job despite Chase's attempts to prove otherwise. Still, seeing Blake tonight made it clear that something has changed, and while I can't yet think about life after the election, for the first time since the concert, I feel hopeful.

❤️