Ronan snarled, “It’s like you checked out of the family at birth.” He knew it was nasty. He knew it was the kind of thing that would’ve made Gansey say 𝘙𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘯 and Adam give him a knowing look.

he’d stolen Gansey’s car. It was a beautiful car. A 1973 bright orange Camaro with stripes right up its hood and straight down its ass. Ronan had wanted to drive it for months, despite Gansey forbidding it.

Matthew just asked with breezy curiosity, “Why don’t you just say ‘I love you’?” Ronan snarled, “Why do you wear your burrito on your shirt instead of in your mouth?”

Ronan Lynch.

Somehow, objectively troubling truths about their parents had been unable to mar Ronan’s feelings for them. Declan envied him. His love and his grief both.

It was possible that no two students at Aglionby had ever come away with such a thorough understanding of Latin (or, possibly, of each other).

There was pocket-sized Blue Sargent, the psychic’s daughter, with her ferocious sense of right and wrong; they’d learned each other so slowly, peeling back layers and only truly figuring each other out just in time for high school to end.

this was how it had begun: Ronan leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes and sending up a simple, inexplicable, desperate prayer to God: 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦.

“Say something in Latin.” Ronan thought. “𝘐𝘯𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘲𝘶𝘪 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘈𝘥𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘴 𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵.” Some ancient poetry bitching about spending one’s birthday without a loved one felt apt.

Ronan rubbed Adam’s fingers between his hands until they were warm and then kissed them.

“I just want to know,” Adam said finally, in a slightly different voice from before, “that when I come for break, you’ll be there.” “I’ll be here.”

Those days, Gansey was the hunter and Ronan the hawkish best friend kept hooded and belled to prevent him tearing himself to shreds with his own talons.

Ronan was allowed to invoke Aurora because they all knew Ronan loved her as much as Matthew had. Declan, whose skeptical love was imperfect, could not.

In the dark, they tangled in each other for several minutes, and finally broke off when stubble had made lips sore. “I missed you,” Adam said, voice muffled, face pressed against Ronan’s neck.

𝘛𝘢𝘮𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘮, said Ronan, and Adam said, 𝘈𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘮. Cicero had written the phrase about Atticus, his dearest friend. 𝘘𝘶𝘪 𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘮. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

Because of course Jordan was good. Better than Hennessy. The best of all the girls. Hennessy’s best friend. Dreamt.

Ronan. Lynch. A truth, given away. A truth, transcribed forever. He hated it. So much softer to lie.

This is going to be a story about the Lynch brothers.

“Parrish,” Ronan snarled. “You aren’t allowed—” He pulled Adam up and held him close, feeling for breath, for pulse. Nothing, nothing. The seconds tilted by.

He said, “Ronan, I know you.” He said it just the same way he’d said it on the phone the night before. Ronan’s adrenaline melted out of him.