Moon lies in the hospital bed, the stark white sheets pulled up to his chest. The harsh, restless tension is finally gone from his body, smoothed away by medication and exhaustion.
He sleeps, his breathing deep and even, looking younger, almost innocent.
I sit on the stiff vinyl couch, not really seeing him. My mind is a tangle of conflicting images.
The furious, possessive Alpha dragging me through hallways. The burning, silent man who collapsed into my arms. His constant, accusing refrain:
Why are you ignoring me?
Did he really hate being ignored that much?
But he's the one who acts so impossibly, infuriatingly weird. Ignoring him felt like my only defense against his chaotic energy.
But maybe… maybe that was wrong.
The memory of the album flickers—two little boys, one silver-haired, one dark, laughing in a pool, sharing ice cream, sleeping tangled together. Best friends. Close cousins.
What shattered that?
