"Just me," Michael admits, because he'd been the only thing from Roswell in this new place, and they'd taken it slowly. He still thinks if they hadn't suddenly become seventeen, he would have drawn it out as long as humanly possible, just to not fuck it up.

He presses his forehead to Alex's, brushing it back and forth, breathing out slowly. "I want this to be what we have, anywhere. Us, a family, a home," he says, voice raw and rough. "The things I dreamed of before Jesse smashed my hand."