“You loved it.”
“I did.”
The apartment felt warmer.
Desire blurred the edge of my fatigue, which probably made it more dangerous than appealing.
Reid saw the exhaustion before I acknowledged it.
“Rest.”
I groaned. “You have become predictable.”
“And you have become slow enough that I can watch each objection form.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He said it lightly.
Neither of us missed the weight beneath it.
I looked at him.
“No.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I don’t.”
He helped me settle against the couch.
I refused the blanket until the room became cold enough that accepting it no longer felt like surrender.
Reid brought me the memory journal.
“What am I supposed to write?”
“Whatever feels real.”
I opened to a blank page.
My handwriting looked unfamiliar, slanted and uneven.
I wrote slowly.
Three-note whistle belongs to Reid.
Then stopped.
“That isn’t enough.”
“You can add to it later.”
I stared at the sentence.
How could I describe the way the signal moved through me?
