I hold her stare. "She does."
Kinsey nods once more, turns, and walks toward the booth where Tildie is sitting.
She slides in and Tildie puts an arm around her and the two of them sit together. I watch them and feel the last tether to the old wound release from somewhere beneath my ribs.
Standing on the edge of the room, by the window, I spot Ounce.
He's not watching the room. He's watching Kinsey.
His expression is unreadable. His body is still. But his attention is fixed on the blonde woman in the booth with an intensity I already understand from my own past with her.
After the party, we head to Saylor’s apartment.
The apartment she hasn't stayed in for weeks.
She wanted to come here tonight. Said she needed to reclaim it.
To walk through the rooms and remind herself they belong to her, not to a forum post, not to a photograph, not to strangers on the internet.
I understood. Some spaces need to be reentered before they can feel safe again.
We're lying in her bed. The sheets are cold because nobody's slept in them in weeks, but our body heat is filling them fast.
Her head is on my chest. Her fingers trace the edges of the bottom rocker through the fabric of my shirt.
I press my lips against the top of her head. "Caleb."
She lifts her head. "What?"
"My name." I look at the ceiling, then at her. "Caleb. That's my real name."
She's silent. Her fingers stop on the patch.
"Caleb." She says it slowly. Tasting it. Rolling it through her mouth the way you test a word in a language you're learning.
"My mom called me Caleb. My cousin calls me Caleb. And now you."
She props herself up on her elbow. Looks down at me with an expression I can't name and don't need to, because it's written across every part of her face in a language I understand without translation.
"Caleb." She says it again. Softer. Like she's putting it somewhere safe.
She lowers her mouth to mine. The kiss is slow. Unhurried.
Not the parking lot collision or the dresser desperation or the post-Creedy fury. This is the kiss of a woman who knows my name, my worst night, my scarred knuckles, and still wants to be here.
She pulls back. Her eyes are bright.
"Hi, Caleb." The corner of her mouth lifts. "I'm Saylor."
I laugh. Low, warm, from the center of my chest. "Nice to meet you, Saylor."
She smiles. Not the almost-laugh from the statistics classroom or the forced one she gives customers at the bar.
A full smile, unguarded, the kind she keeps locked behind all the walls she built to survive her father's name.
She settles back against my chest. Her breathing evens out. My fingers trace circles on her shoulder.
The apartment is still around us. The forum post with her address is still online, but tonight the walls feel solid again. Not because the threat is gone. Because she chose to come back.