A/N: No copyright infringement intended. As I work toward future chapters, I will be updating earlier chapters with more details. Chapters 1 and 2 updated May 2014. Hope you enjoy!

By the time St. Clair arrives in my room on Saturday night, I've reorganized my entire wardrobe. Twice.

"Am I interrupting?" he asks, eyeing a pile of my shirts.

"Course not," I say. "Just catching up on some laundry."

"Ah, midnight laundry," he says, smirking. "That's some dedication."

I blush, embarrassed. I clean when I'm nervous and, right now, I'm really, really nervous. St. Clair is in his pajamas, in my room.

Holy crap.

He pulls out my desk chair and sits to take off his boots. On anyone else, they would be ridiculous, but on him, they're…not.

"So," he says, placing his boots beside the door. "Any big plans for your final day of freedom?"

"Chores, errands, homework," I say. "It's almost too much excitement for one day."

He laughs. "Well, at least you got a bit of a break," he says. "I know it's not the same as being home for Thanksgiving, but I hope it wasn't all bad."

"It wasn't," I say. "Although maybe I'd think otherwise if we hadn't been able to locate a turkey dinner."

"I'm a lucky bloke then," he says, smiling. "I don't know if I could've handled an Anna deprived of her turkey."

I grab my pillow and thwack him on the shoulder. He lets out a dramatic sigh before falling into a fit of giggles and I thwack him again. "Oooooo," he says. "I'm shaking in my boots."

"Impossible," I say. "Your boots are over there."

He rolls his eyes and walks to pick up his boots, shaking them in the air. I laugh.

"Satisfied?" he asks jokingly.

Hardly, I think to myself, as I place the pillow back down on the bed. I nervously smooth the wrinkles on my bedspread and wonder if tonight will be like the last two nights of sleeping together. Hmmmmm…

"I think you've got it smooth enough," St. Clair says.

"Huh?"

"I said, I think you've got it smooth enough. Your sheets," he says, pointing to the bed.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," I say. "I guess I must be tired."

"Me too," he says. "We should probably get some sleep."

I nod. Yes, sleep, that's exactly what we need.

I lay down on my bed, moving to the side closest to the wall. The light switch clicks and my bed's weight shifts as St. Clair crawls next to me.

This has been our ritual – our exciting, terrifying ritual – for the Thanksgiving weekend. I never thought I'd sleep with a boy without actually sleeping with him, but here we are. In my bed. Again.

I tell myself it's because he's going through a rough time. I mean, his mother has cancer and he doesn't want to be alone, especially during the holidays. And honestly, who would? I'm worried about him. We're all worried about him. It seems to give him some comfort, being here, and it makes me feel good to help out a friend.

But over the past few days, it's been harder to deny the feelings that have been building, the feelings I've tried to wish away. He has a girlfriend, I tell myself over and over again. And besides, Meredith has a huge crush on him. She's the first friend I made here, the one who introduced me to everyone else I now call a friend. Including him. I could never –

My thoughts are interrupted by the feel of St. Clair's arm, draped against my side. It sends a jolt through me, a rush of a feeling I can't quite understand. I look over to him, already fast asleep, and wonder how much longer we'll be able to do this.

Why can't things be different?

The question tosses and turns in my mind until I finally fall asleep.

I wake up startled. My heart is pounding and my palms are sweaty. Gross. I carefully raise my head up to check the time. St. Clair flinches.

"Ah!" I scream. He turns his head toward me, his dark brown eyes wide in surprise.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay," I say, trying to catch my breath. "I just didn't know you were awake. Is everything all right?"

He pauses and looks up at the ceiling.

"Yes…no," he says, biting his thumbnail. "No, I mean, no, I don't know."

He sounds so uneasy, so unlike himself. I turn to face him. "How long have you been awake?"

"I just…"

His voice drifts into the night and my gaze drifts toward him.

"Earlier," he says. "When I was late getting here…"

"You're always late," I say jokingly. "I don't take it personally."

I expect him to laugh, but he doesn't.

"I was late because of my Mum."

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.

"She sounded really weak tonight," he continues. "Worse than before."

"I'm sorry," I say, sobering up. "I didn't know."

And it's true. I mean, I know she's sick, but St. Clair rarely reveals to us her day-to-day.

"I'm still not there," he says. "I'm still not there and I should be there, my father be damned."

His voice cracks, ever so slightly, and my heart breaks with it. I never thought any of my friends would have a parent with cancer. Not at this age, at least. It's just completely, totally unfair.

"Your mother knows how much you care about her, how much you love her" I say, placing my hand on his shoulder.

"I should have just bought a plane ticket and gone out there. I should've found a way and I didn't and I can't."

"You are doing everything you can," I say, trying to soothe his anger – mainly at himself. "I know you are."

He turns to me and fixes his gaze on his shoulder, where my hand still lays. Neither of us moves.

"Anna," he whispers.

His gaze slowly rises until it meets my own. His eyes are so dark, so intense. I'm speechless.

He edges closer to me. He looks so pained, so conflicted, so unlike the St. Clair I've known.

"Anna," he says again.