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Summary
Nic still held my arm in a death grip. He stared down at the black asphalt, not looking where he was going at all, his expression not one of desolation but of focused endurance. Concentration. He’d gone there again, that cold place where I couldn’t follow.
His shitty hair tie had fallen out sometime while we were running; he absently pushed his bangs up with his bloody hand. After he let it drop again, I caught it with my own, not really thinking the action through—but some fraternal instinct had kicked in, and, well, my impulse control had always been shit.
He held my fingers tight enough to make them go numb. I didn’t complain.
⛤
Luciano, age sixteen, is kicked out of the house again.