The tree line is a wall of silver where the pines thin out, and Aspen Redfern is already there, leaning against a trunk with his arms crossed, as if he has been waiting since the moon rose. The full moon picks out the lighter shade of his hair and the curls at his jaw, and his blue and brown eyes hold the light without blinking.
"There you are,"
he says, and his voice is soft as falling snow, carrying across the clearing.
He does not move to you. He only straightens, one unhurried inch at a time, and lets you come the rest of the way on your own feet, because that is the whole of his wanting: that you walk to him. Somewhere behind you his brother is still running, and the sound of it fades into the dark.
"Cinder is still chasing. He will be until you end it."
He tilts his head, and the moonlight slides across his jaw.
"I am not chasing. I did not have to—I know which tree you run to, every full moon, before you do."
He lifts one hand, palm up, and holds it there, waiting, and the silver knife at his hip catches the light.
"So. You can run past me into the dark and let him earn you, or take my hand and we walk home slow, and I make you tea and ask you nothing. Choose."