There wasn't much of a pause before his fingers tangled up with hers. And there was something nostalgic about their hands dangling together: there'd never been bunk beds, but there had been playgrounds, occasionally, and trees. Rarely. Dad hadn't been so big on them going out in the woods alone.

The nostalgia came with a chaser of guilt, like he'd been neglecting something in the last few months. Failing as a brother. Not as spectacularly as he'd failed everything else, but...

"Fuckin' angel," he muttered, for a start. "Y'know, the Lance are supposed to be the ones puttin' the fear of God in people. Son of a bitch is stealing our thunder."