Then the light vanishes with a swirl of cloud, and I gasp. “Flynn, did you see that?”
“I saw it,” he says, puzzled, “but I don’t—”
“It was a star,” I whisper.
Flynn’s reaction is electric, for all he only moves an inch, straightening, gaze fixed on the sky overhead. Though his eyes are on the clouds, I can’t help but watch his silhouette in the darkness. The way his mouth is set, the hope and determination there—the strength in his shoulders, the energy in the way he gazes skyward. The breeze stirs his hair, and I find myself transfixed.
I think of my answer when the tortured soul in that prison underground asked me if I was in love with Flynn. I didn’t know, then, but more than anything I wanted the chance to find out. A chance without wars and blood feuds and madness everywhere on this shattered world—a chance where we could just be us. This chance.
“What does it mean?” Flynn turns to gaze at me, eyes finally meeting mine.
I find myself smiling, because I know exactly what it means. “It means the clouds are clearing on Avon.”