The night was hot. Breathing felt like a chore, when warm puffs of air cloaked my senses. It felt as though I was breathing straight from the air ventilator. 

"Come with me," he said. 

I stared at him. There was something different about him tonight. He seemed lighter, the heaviness on his brows lifted by a sardonic slant. The grimness was still lurking in the undercurrents of each syllable uttered, but every statement ended on a question mark. 

He wasn't fully certain anymore about things. At least, not about my heart, its owner and its whereabouts. 

As I arrived at that conclusion, the urge to laugh creeped into the forefront of my consciousness and became a full-blown desire.

The laughter came out in short splutters, gleeful tickled mirth tucked in between coughs of exhaustion. 

"Sammie," he furrowed his pretty brows together, a tinge of exasperation lacing the contours of each word that tumbled out of his bow-shaped lips, "you've got to come up with me."

Is there anything that I've got to do any more? This thought struck me as a ridiculous one to begin with. 

He reached his hand forward, I stared at it. It was the part of him that I used to obsess with, long thin fingers, clipped nails, clean and pale. It was a hand made for saving lives. 

Yes. My mind whispered furiously. Yes. Yes. Yes, I've got to come with you. And I want to. I want to. I want to.

My lips were cracked and dry, and I swallowed, licking them nervously before speaking the words I had chosen in the back of my mind. 

"No."

I turned and ran.