I'd left Adrian's office the second his story had ended, my mind spinning.

A cigarette stub? That was what had done this to us?

I could barely believe it. My guilt had been monstrous, but I had no idea what Rian must have gone through, thinking that I blamed him all those years.

I didn't blame him, though. And he didn't blame me. The past three years had been one enormous, destructive misunderstanding. What were we doing?

Now I stood in front of his door, fighting back a wave of . . . something. The spare key I'd stolen dug into my palm, my grip on it betraying weeks of anxiety suddenly unleashed.

My vision was blurry. It took me a minute to realize unshed tears had snuck up on me at some point, dangerously ready to fall. I scowled, trying to blink them back, and lifted the key to the lock.

Click.

My scowl transformed into a frown when the door swung open, with no help from me. The key in my hand still hovered in the air, except now it was subject to two pairs of eyes rather than one.

"I'm not even surprised," Rian muttered, eyeing the stolen key. "That went missing weeks ago. Should've known it was you."

He adjusted a strap on his shoulder, and my already cold body froze anew when I saw it was attached to a duffel bag, stuffed full with his belongings.

He'd packed quickly.

I will not let it happen again.

I placed a hand flat on his chest, slender fingers spreading against hard muscle. He seemed to tense involuntarily, or at least do something close to it. He glanced down at where my palm made contact.

For a moment, I just savoured the touch. The warmth of him.

Then I shoved him back inside. 

He stumbled only a step backwards, but it was enough for me to walk in and shut the door behind me. "What the hell?" he snapped, glaring at me. "Get out of my way."

I simply stared back at him. "I heard you and Adrian the other day."

He stiffened, his brow furrowing. "What?"

"After we . . ." I trailed off. "The dogs. Prof was angry about the dogs and after he left Adrian had a chat with you and he called you a casanova or whatever, and—"

As I spoke, Rian's expression steadily drained of anger. In its place was a careful neutrality, the kind of face you wore when you wanted to gauge how much someone knew about something they shouldn't.

"Casanova?" he replied cautiously. I scowled, and a moment's regret flashed across his face. That wasn't the best place to start, and he knew it.

"Yeah, that. And a lot of other things." I cast my eyes to the couch where I'd hidden, pointing a finger. "I was under there. I heard everything. I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

Rian's eyed the place my finger was aimed, quiet shock passing over his face. He didn't say anything, so I continued.

"Rian, I wasn't—I didn't—" I stumbled over my words, trying to collect my thoughts. "I'm sorry I didn't know. I had no idea things were like that for you. I know what that guilt is like, and—god. I'm so, so sorr—"

"Stop," Rian interrupted sharply, "apologizing."

I fell silent.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, taking in a deep breath. I gnawed on my bottom lip. I was trying to say something, but the words just weren't coming out the way I wanted them to.

"No matter what you heard, it doesn't change anything." For the first time since I'd walked in, he looked me straight in the eyes. "Guilty or not, you have a reaction to me."

I rolled my eyes. "No shit. You think I just go around kissing anyone who tickles my fancy?"

He scowled, but the tips of his ears went that shade of pink I loved. "That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about those episodes. The ones that have nearly killed you half a dozen times since you came back h—"

Home.

He stopped himself before he could say it, averting his gaze. Rising anger heated his words. "Every time something reminds you too strongly of that day, it happens. And guess fucking what?" He spread his arms mockingly, his expression self-deprecating. "I'm the biggest reminder there is."

I dragged a distressed hand through my hair. "Rian—"

"If you think," he interjected, "that I'm gonna stick around and wait for something about me to set you off for the last time, you're mistaken."

"But I know now!" I protested, my own voice tinted with rage. "I know what happened. The explosion wasn't your fault, Rian. It wasn't my fault either, okay? It was just bad timing and bad luck!"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't I?" I challenged, taking a step forward. "Your dad's smoking problem, that cigarette. I know about those." I watched his face pale. I had to force my next words out. "But did you know that earlier that day, a repairman showed up to our house? He was there to fix the gas line. I told him to leave early. And then, ten minutes before our parents were killed, I switched the gas back on. Did you know about that?"

He stared at me, saying nothing.

"Whatever you've been carrying, Rian," I said, my voice no less intense, "I've been carrying too. I ignored a faulty gas line. You ignored your father smoking in our furnace room. Mistakes, yes, but they didn't warrant the last three years of self-deprecation and guilt and regret. Why was it your responsibility to keep your father in check? He was a grown man. He should have known better. It wasn't your fault. And me." I paused, taking in a breath, finally coming to terms with something that had haunted me for far too long. "It wasn't my fault that the gas main beneath our house was damaged. I couldn't have known what would have happened. It wasn't—" A lump rose in my throat, cathartic and hard-won. "It wasn't my fault, either."

Rian was still silent. He cast his eyes around the room, finally letting them land on me. 

"That still doesn't change things," he said, voice quiet but firm. My stomach dropped.

"I don't get it," I muttered, digging my hands through my hair. "I don't understand. We've been doing this too long, and you still want to keep going?"

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"This!" I gestured angrily between the two of us. "This. The stupid guilt. And the angst. The worry. Why are you so determined to stay by yourself and be stuck and suffer in—in, what? Your own personal, private hell?"

Anger was creeping over the tired lines in Rian's face again. "Hanna." His voice was a warning, but I didn't listen.

"This entire time, you just let me hurt you and hate you and—and I don't even know. Curse your name. And even now, when I'm telling you it's nobody's fault—" I broke off, shaking my head. "I'm starting to think we're just a pair of masochists. Because this is ridiculous."

"Hanna."

"I don't get it!" I repeated, my voice rising. "I know I did the same thing, but at least I'm coming clean about it. But you. You consistently refuse to let me just be there. For you. I was right there three years ago and I'm here now and—"

"But you weren't!" Rian burst angrily. "You weren't 'right there.' All this time, you went on and on like I was the one with amnesia, but you forget. You ran away. You ran off to France and left me behind! Remember that, Hanna?"

I stilled. My voice died in my throat.

Regret instantly crossed Rian's face, but it was too late now. The words had been said. And the worst part was that they were true.

I had left. I had run away. I had been so bent on escaping my own guilt, on being selfish—so obsessed with the idea that Rian hated me for my part in the incident—that I hadn't even considered how he must have felt, all alone. His entire family dead. His best friend an ocean away.

"You're right," I sighed, sliding my hands in my pockets dejectedly. "I'm sorry for that, too."

I stared at the ground, my anger lost. My mind drifted to that time, to the countless nights I had spent gasping through pain and tears and grief. As if called by the memory, my throat grew tight and the backs of my eyes burned. An image of my mother's death floated across my vision. I felt a familiar pinprick of pain in my right side, and horror washed over me.

It couldn't happen here, not during this conversation. He would think it was him. He would—

Rian's hand materialized in front of me, and for a second I saw it as it was three years ago, dragging me out of that burning building, my dead mother a few feet away. A flash of white.

I flinched, hard.

Rian's hand stopped inches away from me. I glanced up, hating the tears that involuntarily filled my eyes, about to apologize again, but his sigh cut me off. The mask finally was gone, and all that was left was Rian.

"See?" he said, only a hint of bitterness in his tone. His thumb brushed away a tear that had accidentally slipped down my cheek. "I was right. I'm no good for you." He pulled the hand away and raked it through his hair instead. "And I guess you're no good for me either."

He leaned forward, adjusting that hateful duffel strap again, and I closed my eyes in resignation. I jolted when I felt lips pressed against my forehead. They were warm and soft and achingly fleeting.

My eyes stayed closed.

"See you, Hanna."

When I opened them again, he was gone.