Mateo doesn’t cry pretty. He doesn’t hiccup softly or wipe his face and try to be dignified abou...

Mateo doesn’t cry pretty. He doesn’t hiccup softly or wipe his face and try to be dignified about it. He shatters. The sound that rips out of him is ugly—raw, animal, dragged straight from the center of his chest like something clawed its way up his throat. His body folds in on itself and then lunges forward all at once, hands scrambling, fingers clutching for Jack, like if he doesn’t grab him right now he’ll be ripped back into those four months of silence and rot. “Jack—” That’s all he ge