Brett Yang is... a flame, is what he is, and I the moth drawn irrevocably towards him. Except I forgot about the candle. Excerpt: He smiles at the camera, that same radiant smile with a hint of cheek I'd fallen in love with. I'm surprised by how much it doesn't hurt - okay, the fourteen-year-old buried inside me died, just a little bit, but still. Then he turns towards him. His eyes take on a warmth I had seldom seen in them - certainly never directed towards me - and I think I know.