He waited.
I turned my palm over.
His fingers threaded through mine.
The pressure in my skull eased slightly.
Not because he fixed anything.
Because I no longer had to hold myself together alone.
“I dreamed about you,” I said.
Reid went still.
“What kind of dream?”
“The apartment was flooded.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“You were not taking it seriously.”
“I’m trying not to decide what it means before you tell me.”
I watched our joined hands.
“The rooms kept changing. I couldn’t find the door.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Not exactly.”
“What happened?”
“You whistled.”
His fingers tightened.
“I followed it.”
“Did you find me?”
“You touched my neck.”
I raised my right hand and placed it at the base of my skull.
“There.”
Reid’s gaze dropped to the gesture.
“And?”
“I knew you.”
He did not breathe.
“There wasn’t a face,” I continued. “I didn’t see you. But I knew the hand was yours.”
