An hour later, I was in a gas station off the highway. I'd called Hank, in a panic, and told him Logan had collapsed in the shower. I didn't supply any additional information and I don't think he needed it, because he'd hung up first.

And then, as usual, I'd sped away from my problems. I'd waited only until I saw him take a breath before I ran, making sure his face wasn't directly under the cooling spray.

Something was way way off. The touches, that turned into longer caresses, against bare naked skin, hadn't affected him. Until they did. I was starting to wonder if he was becoming slowly immune to my touch, kinda like how clownfish build up tolerance to an anemone. A mutually beneficial relationship. Apart from the only benefit he'd received from me was the sharper side of my tongue while I took his healing, bad habits and some choice cusses. I didn't even want to delve into the box of memories held together by duct tape - the most recent info dump.

The gas station was in actuality a trucker stop that time had forgotten. The complex was huge enough, and far away enough from home, for anonymity to reign supreme, which was just the way I liked it. Yes, it was probably about five in the morning, and I looked like I'd just rolled out of a dumpster. Even my mother wouldn't have recognized me, but still.

I enjoyed the neatly piled colorful packets of chips, the neat little squares of plastic-wrapped marble cake you can only get in a place like this. The wall-to-wall jerky display. All gleaming under the glare of bright white fluorescents. Slurpee machines with every flavor imaginable, and, bizarrely, organ music playing over the tannoy.

Another anomaly. Before, all this would have overwhelmed my newly inherited senses. The unnatural lights too bright. The grating pitchy music. Smells from everywhere infiltrating my nostrils - they had a hot and cold delicatessen, bakery, fish and pizza counters. Even the noxious smell of smoking fat from the adjoining diner was floating over. My nose seemed to filter all that out and focus on what I really needed - coffee.

And there is definitely something to be said about gas station coffee. The sweet-stale kind of brown liquid that is only drinkable when searing hot, undertones of burnt toast and maybe maple? In the king-sized cup, because why bother if you're not going all in?

"Anything else, Buttercup?" the cashier snapped my attention back to the present.

A guy that maybe could've been cute, in his red-necked mullet, mustache and gold-capped tooth way. Early thirties. Dark blond. Cocky grin. I wasn't in the mood.

I shook my head.

"For you, that's on the house."

I took my coffee to the outside rest area, even though it was only about forty-seven degrees. I'd dressed quickly in the only thing I could find that I'd thought would fit; sweats with internal ties at the waist so I could cinch them in, (learned my lesson from last time) and a giant hoodie that looked like it'd hardly been worn. But they were clean and smelt of him.

The heavy leaden sky was as grey as my mood. Cloudless and strangely blank.

Just then, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.

Hank - He's stable.

Stable but not awake.

The contact had been the longest I'd ever touched someone before, without help. I'd just started to notice other things too, like the abraided skin on my pinky toes healing as, without socks, they'd rubbed against the inside of my boots. And the whiskey I'd poured into my coffee seemed to have no effect at all. Which wasn't at all helpful.

I wanted to go to him. To tell him I was sorry. For what I did. For what happened. For the way that I was. That I took from him things he probably didn't want to share. The unimportant but deeply private thoughts I'd one-hundred percent not peaked into. The simple things that kept him grounded. The rain, bringing with it a freshness and promise of new life. Especially when he was warm and dry inside. Calling just to hear the voice of an old friend when you were far away from home. The smell of the spruce and pine blown down on the breeze over the lake in the still morning. County music on the radio playing quietly in the other room. Peached iced tea and hot cherry pie with whipped cream.

I had to go and see him. It wasn't just the guilt driving me back. It had dawned on me that he'd knowing risked his life to give me what I wanted. What I craved. He'd almost died for me once before. I'd thought it was for a different reason. That promise. Sence of duty. I'd thought it trivial. He wanted to die. The version of him in my head had agreed. The attempt was in vain, not quite assertive enough to be believable. It wasn't so much he wanted his life to end, but mine to continue.

I got in my car and drove. Back over state lines. Back into the county. I didn't stop for anything. Not the badger I was pretty sure I'd run over. Not for the countless red lights I recklessly sped through. Not even as I floored it past a police vehicle on the side of the road.

As my luck would have it, the officer was not the type to be trifled with. Out to catch early-morning commuters pushing the speed limit, my twenty-over was classed as reckless endangerment. He'd taken me straight down to the station. I was lucky. A few miles more over and I would've been having my fingerprints taken.

I'd succeded in only scrapping up the front of my bumper. Luckily the healing had metabolized whatever alcohol was in my system and I blew under the limit. In my single-minded determination to reach him, I'd been incredibly stupid. I could have hurt someone. I could have hurt myself. Something I'd not much cared about before but now I had this internal driving force that told me self-preservation was a necessity.

I sat in a cell for two hours, fighting the rising sense of panic and trying to push all thoughts out of my mind, before another officer came to let me out. Apparently, my bail had been posted. Not sure by whom as no one knew what had happened. The resident telepaths had both been deceased for almost half a decade.

Once I'd gotten my belongings back, I switched on my smashed cell phone and two voicemails flashed up. One was work. They'd called a few times before finally leaving a message. I was no longer employed. Immediate effect.

That didn't unsettle me as much as the next one.

"Rogue."

A pause.

"Marie."

Another pause. A long huff of breath. Almost a sigh.

"I wanted to… you've… well, you're not here. Christ, you know I'm shit with words."

I smiled to myself, despite it all.

"I guess I wanted to say, I know what happened is not how you'd imagined it'd turn out. Ya probably think… well, I don't know what you think. You're so damn frustrating." He allowed himself a chuckle. It came out low and raspy, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"You just have to know, I didn't plan on that, okay? Not that I didn't… it was…"

There was a soft growl. A mincing of words.

"I wouldn't change what happened, I just wish…"

It sounded like he moved away from the phone, his breath coming in sharp pants. I could imagine him looking over his shoulder, knowing no one was listening in on the one-sided conversation but unable to relax.

"Having you there, as we slept on the floor outside… feeling you, skin to skin… was the closest I've come to love in all I can remember."

There was another long pause.

"I like the way you kiss."