Constantine used to think of her as a firefly, fluttering between his fingers and glowing like a warm ember as she wandered about him. It had been so easy to hold her before. A hand on her shoulder, an arm around her waist, the taste of her skin on the tip of his tongue. She had been so real, so warm, so alive. All he had to do was reach out if he wanted to touch her, if he wanted to know she was still there.
And then the night on the hill had shown him something different.
He had tried. He had. And yet he had been too far away to reach out and grasp her in the end, despite forcing every stride to be faster than the last, longer than the last. He had pushed himself so hard that he thought his heart would seize and burst in his chest, but maybe that had been one-half terror, too.
Consta
