It was a smile that spelled trouble. With a promise.

Patch wasn't the kind of guy mothers smiled on. He was the kind of guy they changed the house locks for.

He felt warm and familiar. He felt solid and safe. I wanted to cling to his shirt, bury my face into the warm curve of his neck, and never let go.

Boys like girls who look like...girls.

Your name?” I repeated, hoping it was my imagination that my voice faltered. “Call me Patch. I mean it. Call me

They say that when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. They never tell you that when you watch someone you once loved dying, hovering between this life and the next, it's twice as painful, because you're reliving two lives that traveled one road together.

Father' is such an arbitary word. Douche bag, on the other hand.