“You’re cold.” I try to steady my voice.
“I’m fine.”
“You gave me the blankets.”
“I have the fire.”
“Share the blankets with me, Boyd.” The request hangs in the air. Audacious. Dangerous.
He looks up. At me. The hunger sits stark and unguarded in the guttering light of the fire.
“Iris. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
“I’m cold.” I tug his hand. An invitation.
He hesitates. The war plays out across his face. The tactical mind grappling with the biological imperative. The warden grappling with the man.
He exhales. A harsh sound.
He shifts, sliding down until he lies next to me on the rug. He doesn’t pull me into his arms. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, leaving a foot of distance between us.
“Shut your eyes.”
I do.
But I shift closer. I can’t help it. I seek his heat the way a plant bends toward light. I press my back against his side.
He goes rigid.
Then, slowly, he relaxes. He brings his arm around me, pulling me back against his chest.
The fit is seamless.
I’m the small spoon to his large one. His torso provides a solid wall against my back. His legs tangle with mine. His arm creates a steel band across my waist, locking me in.
Safe.
His heartbeat thuds against my shoulder blade, slow and weighty. I track the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“This is a mistake.” His voice rumbles against my hair.
“Probably.” I burrow deeper, hauling his arm tighter around me. “Goodnight, Boyd.”
He doesn’t answer. He holds me tighter.
For the first time since the hospital, the tremors stop completely. The cold recedes. The fear dissolves.
I sleep. This time, there are no dreams. Only him.
8
The Evidence
BOYD
The phone vibratesin my pocket.
A localized earthquake against my hip, a tactical haptic buzz designed to be felt through layers of Kevlar and denim but unheard by anyone standing three feet away. Phantom sensation. A tether to a world I’m trying to keep outside the blast walls.
