“Yeah?” The doubt in his voice—rough and shaky—has nothing to do with aloe. He presses the heel of his free hand against the bar, glances away. The whole point was supposed to be that she wouldn't be stuck cleaning up after him, wouldn't be talking down stone-cold psychopaths and peering out of windows. She deserves to live in the open.

But there's a reason he didn't agree to this while looking her in the eye. “Okay.” It's lighter. He feels the weight he'd been buckling under slide off. He throws a half-rueful, half-affectionate parting glance at the stage—the site of his demise—and leaves the beer sweating on the counter.