Page 32 of Ronan

He even had the foresight to throw in extra pairs of socks and underwear. At first, the military issue tighty-whities made me feel odd, not only because they’re hideous, but because Ronan grabbed them specifically for me. He was picturing my body when he stole someone’s freshly bleached underwear from the base laundry.

Talk about your romantic grand gestures.

While I wait for the clothes to dry, we explore further and find a few blackberry bushes. I eat until my tongue is stained purple and my stomach sloshes with the juices. Overindulgence isn’t the best idea, but fresh produce is uncommon, and I’m not about to waste it.

More fruit gets piled up in a basket for later, but we find nothing else of interest as we circle the cluster of trees. The sun droops low on the horizon as we close ourselves back into the house, and I dig through the food that Ronan left for me.

I tear a loaf of bread in half, chewing on a piece when I discover a bag of jerky that causes an involuntary smile. Meat is a delicacy on the road, one you don’t get unless you hunt it yourself. I grab a few small pieces to savor and pass some to Boomerang, whose eyes light up as she settles in to chew.

She’s always been self-sufficient in feeding herself and today was no different. The fat squirrel she caught was so unused to danger in this private little clump of trees that it didn’t even run from Boomerang, and I left her alone to eat. Circle of life or not, I don’t need to watch it unfold in all its bloody glory.

After dinner, I dig through the rest of the supplies, curious about what Ronan deemed necessities. The other half of the bread loaf is wrapped in a towel, along with more meat and a bag of nuts and dried fruits. There’s a satchel of rice that will be amazing when I can safely burn a fire, and a metal bowl that can be used for cooking. I snort when I notice the familiar white bottle resting inside it.

It’s the same soap I was holding when Ronan first found me. Aware of my goofy grin, I wipe it away and put the soap aside. Medical supplies sit in the bottom—bandages, a sewing kit, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol that’s worth its weight in gold. Thinking the bag is empty, I drop it on the ground and frown when it thuds with unexpected weight.

Against my better judgement, curiosity overcomes my caution as I glance at the near-total darkness outside, then strike a match to light the lantern. A strange emotion causes my breath to catch in my throat as I pull out a worn book. The paperback cover is battered with scratches and folds and the multi-creased spine barely holds on.

My fingers run over the weathered letters of the title, whispering the words, “Watership Down,” as I trace them. Books are a rarity in this world, most of them casualties of the war between the factions or lost to time in the forgotten corners of the wilds. Rumors speak of grandlibraries inside the cities, but even if they exist, those are nothing more than a dream for a rambler like me.

There was a small collection in my childhood village, a few dozen books that we’d found over the years, but since I left? I can count on two hands the number of physical books I’ve held.

Something heavy lodges in my chest as that string pulls tight in my gut, the mark on my arm flaring under the cover of my jacket. Emotion clogs my throat, taking me a few attempts to swallow past it.

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Boomerang chews happily on a decaying stuffed animal, cotton stuffing sticking in her teeth as she pulls away long enough to smile at me. “It doesn’t!” I argue, and her head tilts in a very skeptical way.

“Yeah, okay,” I whisper as I drop onto the couch, staring at the book. “Maybe it means something.” The words seem to echo in the silence, forcing me to acknowledge them. Because as much as I want to deny it, as much as I want to throw the fates a few middle fingers and tell them I’m not interested in what they’re offering, I can’t. No matter how much I drag my heels, or how much I kick and scream andfight, the attraction between us keeps growing.

There’s this blurry little picture forming in the back of my mind—a fuzzy image of a future where he keeps his word, and he comes back. A future where he stays and proves there’s something left in this world for me.

I want him…. want him to come back. Want toknowhim.

And I hate every fucking second of it, because above everything else?

I want to not be hurt again.

My palm rubs over my chest, soothing that relentless, insistent ache as I curl into the couch, dimming the lantern as low as it’ll go as I open the book. Holding the flimsy pages with care, my eyes focus on the first lines, and I get lost in the story.

In two days, I’ve ventured further from the house, finding a fresh water source I trust enough to drink and a handful of other useful items.

Years of scavenging have honed my skills, but unless I go further—unless Ileave—I’m running out of things to keep me occupied. The stillness is grating on me, a restlessness in my soul that wants to move, despite the voice inside that screams at me to wait. It’s a tug-of-war, a push-and-pull, as my logical brain battles my influenceable heart.

I can leave at any time, I tell myself. It’s not like I promised him anything. He doesn’t invade my waking thoughts or take over my dreams at night. And I’m certainly not waiting for an answer to my question.

I don’t evenwanthim to come with me.

Sweet lies, all of them—ones we whisper to ourselves when the denial is too strong.

A rainy-day adventure underneath the house led us to a stash of clothes with a few salvageable items inside. I’m sitting at the creek, washing and drying them, when thecrunch of gravel kicks in the distance. Boomerang freezes, her ears perking up as she points her snout in the direction of the noise. Together, we sneak back to find an unfamiliar vehicle parked in the driveway. I duck behind a bush and wait, Boomerang crouched beside me.

Ronan’s giant, leather-wrapped frame walks out of the house and around the side of the sedan. Relief flutters in my stomach, rising into my throat as I realize just how worried I’d been that he’d gotten caught helping me.

His expression pulls tight, and he leans against the car, crossing his arms as his shoulders slump forward. Long black hair drapes in front of his face as he stares at the palm of his gloved hand, before suddenly shoving it through his hair and standing tall. Maybe I should put him out of his misery, but it’s fascinating to watch the kaleidoscope of emotions that crosses his usually stoic face.

He opens the back, and my eyes widen as he moves several large bags to the ground, then slams the trunk with so much force I swear the shockwaves blow across my skin. His gaze lingers on the overflowing packs, heavy with uncertainty, and I realize he thinks I’ve moved on without him.

Ronan crouches and scrubs his palms over his face, his shoulders wilting as his head thunks against the metal of the car. I’ve never seen him so defeated—sobeaten—and suddenly, I want to take that defeat away.

Careful not to make any noise, I approach, but Boomerang steps on a twig and Ronan’s head snaps up, his eyes finding mine as he rushes to his feet. “You’re here,” he says as I step closer, staring at me with something akin to wonder until he realizes he’s gone doe-eyed and masks it with his usual apathy.

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