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“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?