17: Where You Came From

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A/N: I love this chapter. I hope you guys like it, too :)

NPOV

Track: Like Real People Do, Hozier

I don't ask Will where he's bringing me—I assume it'll be my house. He already knows where it is, and then he can drop me off on the front porch and wash his hands of me. I can't even blame him—I'm a mess tonight, still on edge and jittery after the gunshots. If not for Will, I would have died a hundred times over. I have to repay him for all of this.

But Will doesn't take me to my house. Instead, we end up on the porch of a house painted light yellow. There are tulips in the front garden, and rose bushes sit to each side of the porch, carefully pruned by a gentle hand.

He whispers to me as he unlocks the door, "We have to be quiet until we get upstairs—my mom is probably asleep right now."

I nod, sick to my stomach. Will is taking a risk by bringing me to his house. If I wanted to hurt him, knowing where he lives makes it a lot easier.

But I don't want to hurt him. I don't think he wants to hurt me either. What did I do to deserve that kindness? Especially tonight, I've been pathetic as Will tried to make up for my inadequacies.

Will takes a step into his home, and I follow him in. He kicks his shoes off at the door, so I copy him as I look around. I clasp my hands together because they're shaking. My whole body is drenched in sweat, and I feel dirty.

The first thing Will does is head to the kitchen and open one of the cupboards. He pulls out two glasses and fills them with water, and then he nods at me to go upstairs with him. I follow him quietly. He passes one of the glasses to me while we climb the stairs, and his watchful eyes don't miss the way my hands are still shaking when I take it.

There's a door at the top of the stairwell, and he closes it after we make it to the second floor. Then he says, "My mom shouldn't be able to hear us while we're up here. My house has pretty thick walls and everything, and she's on the first floor."

I nod but don't say anything. He makes a gesture to follow him, and this time he takes me to a bedroom. The whole room is so incredibly Will; the walls are painted bright yellow, and I wonder how he managed to avoid constant headaches from the bright colors. There's a sunshine rug on the floor and a desk with colorful gel pens scattered across the top sitting underneath a window on the right side of the room. His bed is not quite baby blue, but it's close—more celeste blue. The lighting of his room is gentle and warm like a sunrise, thanks to the fact that he only keeps his lamps on while the harsher ceiling lights stay off. There are two other doors—one is ajar, and I can see the tile floor of a bathroom on the other side. The other door is shut. Probably a closet.

He sits on his bed and pats the spot next to him. Swallowing hard, I take the cue and sit down next to him. I lay my free hand flat against my thigh in an attempt to hide the shaking from him.

"Can you show me where the acids got you?" he asks gently, and he reaches first for the hand on my thigh. I will myself to stop shaking, but it doesn't work. He's kind enough to not say anything about it, at least.

He lays his hand over mine, and his healing light soaks into my skin. I'm still not used to this. Usually, if I get injured in a fight, I just tough it out until it heals naturally. It must be nice to know that any wound you suffer will only be very temporary—only lasting as long as it takes you to sink light into your own skin.

The blistering and burning on my hand smooths out, but the shaking remains even after he's done. I set my water on his tan bedside table so he can do my other hand. He's so gentle with me.

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