Page 77 of Dozer

"Kenzi." I can barely get it out. "Look at me."

Her eyes open. Blown wide, wet at the corners, and completely present.

"There you are," I say.

And she says, "Here."

I break. It hits me from the base of my spine outward, and I bury myself in her and hold, shaking, forehead pressed hard to her collarbone, and she's coming with me. I feel it, feel her clamp and pulse and cry out into my hair and for one long suspended stretch of time there is not one single thing in the world that's trying to kill either of us.

It goes quiet after.

Not immediately. First there's heavy breathing and the pounding of blood in my head, and her hand moving in slow circles between my shoulder blades like she's gentling a horse. My arm's shaking where it's holding my weight off her. I don't trust it much longer.

"Down," she says, tugging.

"I'll crush you."

"Down, Dozer." I pretend it doesn’t sound like she’s giving orders to a dog.

I lower myself onto my elbow instead, half over her, and she makes an irritated sound and hauls me the rest of the way until my head is on her shoulder and her arms are around me. My side aches. I don't care.

Neither of us says anything for a while. She's tracing the line of my shoulder blade with two fingers, over and over, and I let my eyes close.

"You're bleeding," she says eventually.

"Some."

"You said you weren't."

"I lied."

"You lied."

"Yeah."

Her fingers stop. Then start again. "Well. Okay. Under the circumstances, I suppose I can forgive you."

I turn my head, press my mouth to the notch of her collarbone. "It's fine. I'll redo the bandage."

"I'll redo it."

"You'll redo it." I agree. I know better than to argue with her.

"That's right." She's quiet for a second. "You have really terrible priorities."

"Best I've had in years."

That gets me a laugh. Small. She goes still under me a second later and I feel her chest hitch once and I don't say anything about it. I just get my arm around her ribs and hold on while she does it, because I know that hitch. She’s crying.

"Sorry," she says thickly.

"Don't."

"I'm not sad. Or — I am. It's not just that." She wipes her face with the back of her wrist, quick, businesslike. "It's this whole week.”

"It’s okay to cry."

"Is it?"