“It’s not much.”
“Men say that when their limbs are mostly attached.”
“I’m not missing any limbs.”
“Your standards are bleak.”
Jade crossed the kitchen, opened drawers until she found the dish towel, then wet one corner at the sink. She came back and took my hand like she’d decided the argument was beneath her.
The cloth touched my knuckles.
I hissed through my teeth.
“Not much,” she muttered.
“It isn’t.”
“You’re very brave. Hold still.”
I held still.
Her fingers were cool around my wrist. Ink lined her hands in small permanent marks, old smudges and tiny dots from a life of needles, art, and other people trusting her with skin. She cleaned the scrape without looking up.
I watched her because I could. The kitchen had no warrant between us, no chase outside, no locked motel door, and no sister crouched behind my seat. It held Jade with dust on her boots and blood on a towel she’d probably make fun of later.
She glanced up. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like you’re trying to figure out what happens now.”
“I’m not deciding.”
“What, then?”
“I’m getting used to being allowed to look.”
The towel stopped moving.
Jade’s throat worked once. “That was a dangerous answer.”
“I’m done with safe answers.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
I stepped closer slowly enough for her to stop me.
She didn’t.
I touched the side of her face, thumb brushing the dust near her cheekbone. The ink drop behind her ear showed where the braid had loosened.
“I want you,” I said. “Not Crystal’s name. Not the chase. Not the woman in my custody. You.”
Her breath shook.
“Here?” she asked, and the word came out too small for her.
“Here. In daylight. In my house. With every door unlocked.”
