Her temper got the better of her as she and Crane raged against each other. He accused her of things she had never thought of, she called him things she had never put to his name in her head, ever, until finally, spent with anger, she declared that they were over, they had never been and he agreed vehemently.
Later that night, she knew he stood just outside her room, his fist and then his forehead resting against the door. The wood sang with his presence, even dead as it was, and Rosethorn had to grip her sheets with both hands to keep from getting up and running to him.
She had never wanted to hurt him, but she wouldn't forget how he had jumped to all those conclusions about why she was ending their relationship. If her anger didn't keep the tears from coming as she heard him, finally, move away from her door without knocking, then at least it kept her warm.