I lean against the balcony railing, the cool metal pressing into my palms as I stare out at the city lights. The party rages behind me - Margo's elaborate birthday celebration for me, complete with too many people and too much noise. I needed air, space, a moment away from the well-meaning attention of friends who watched me die and somehow brought me back.

The sliding door whispers open behind me. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. The scent of his cologne gives him away before he even speaks.

"You're missing your own party." Eliot's voice is closer than I expected, warm against the back of my neck.

I startle slightly, my back pressing against the wall as I turn to face him. He's watching me with that expression I can never read - something between amusement and concern. A strange little smile plays on his lips.

"It's a lot," I say after a moment, turning back to the view. I clutch the railing tighter, knuckles whitening under the pressure. The silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant sounds of the party and Eliot's approaching footsteps.

I can feel him before he even reaches my side - the heat of his body, the tension in the air. When he finally stands beside me, we're barely an inch apart. Close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I dared.

But I won't. Whatever we had - whatever might have been - died with me. Or maybe it died long before that, when he walked away from my confession.

"They missed you," he says softly. His hand settles on the railing beside mine. "We missed you."

I shrug, staring fixedly at the skyline. "It's okay if you didn't."

The words hang in the air between us. This is it - the moment he'll confirm what I've suspected since I came back. That he's better off without me in his life. That our friendship, our whatever-it-was, is gone forever.

"Is that what you think?" His voice breaks on the last word. "That I didn't miss you?"

I finally look at him, really look at him. The bags under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth, the way he's clutching the railing like it's the only thing keeping him upright. "You tell me," I mutter. "You've been avoiding me since I came back."

"You say 'came back' like we didn't drag you back from the other side," he retorts, words sharp with frustration. "Because you'd died." He pauses, sighing heavily. "It's your birthday, Q. I don't want to have this talk now."

"It feels like you don't want to have any talk ever," I say, nodding. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe I should just leave before he can reject me again. "I think I'm going to head to bed. Tell Margo thank you for me?"

I turn to leave, but his hand wraps around my wrist - warm, strong, unyielding. My heart pounds against my ribs as electricity shoots up my arm at his touch. It's been so long since he touched me voluntarily.

"Q." His voice is raw, almost broken.

I should pull away. This is dangerous. But when I try to tug my wrist free, his grip only tightens.

"Let go, El."

"No." He says it firmly, his eyes searching mine when I finally meet his gaze. They're soft, tormented, filled with something I haven't seen there in years. "Do you really think I didn't miss you? That I haven't wanted to be by your side every second you've been back?"

Before I can respond, he's stepping closer, crowding me against the wall. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin as he speaks.

"Everything I've done is because I love you, Q. Because I can't bear to lose you again."

The words hang in the air between us, impossible and life-changing all at once.