"You could have died," Clark says. His eyes are wide and innocent, and you wonder if you were ever that young.

"Yeah."

You exhale, digging yourself deeper into the second hand couch in the loft. The cheap fabric scratches the back of your head, uncomfortable against the bruise that Earl Jenkins’ gun left behind.

Clark reaches out, his hand ghosting over your scalp, before he pulls back, embarrassed, a tell-tale blush coloring his cheeks. "I’m sorry," he mumbles, mournful, and you have to smile.

"Not your fault," you say. "My father’s fault."

"Yeah," he says, and something dark and guilty flashes in his eyes. You don’t understand it now, but later you will. Later, you’ll wonder if this is when you started hating him.

"I’m glad you’re okay," you say, surprised at how honest the phrase is in your mouth. You should fear this, this honesty, this truth that he brings out in you, but he shifts on the couch, and drops his hand close enough to yours that if you just reached out, you would be holding hands, and you feel okay.

"I’m glad you’re okay," he replies.

You close your eyes and exhale once more.

You don't reach for his hand, but you're glad it's there. You will miss it when it's gone.