Page 81 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

Stay. That word I was so sure he was only saying hours prior because he was delirious from blood loss. But here it is again when he’s somehow, miraculously, lucid.

“Please stay,” he amends. “Do you mind wrapping my wound again once I’m out?”

He sounds…hesitant? No—unsure. Like he doesn’t want to overstep by asking this of me. As if there are any barriers left between us.

“Of course not.” I close the door, shutting us in the bathroom.

The shower turns off and my breath sticks in my chest as he reaches for a towel hung on a hook. I turn around to face the sink, which isn’t much better because of the mirror, though it’s fogged. I left the first aid kit on the counter so I busy myself by pulling out the necessary supplies.

“You can turn around,” he says. “I’m decent.”

Nothing about this feels decent.

I face him anyway. He stands with a white towel around his waist, water droplets falling from the edges of his hair onto the cracked tile in soft plinks. The bathroom is so small we’re nearly chest to chest.

“I don’t understand how you’re standing right now,” I tell him, carefully removing the wet bandage from his shoulder. I’m pleased to see it’s only minorly spotted with blood.

“You did a good job patching me up.” He glances at the precise row of stitches before his eyes come back to me. “Thank you.”

“I could have done the world’s best job patching you up and it still wouldn’t explain this.” I gesture to him standing. “Was it the balm? What’s in it?”

He hesitates, then nods. “It’s a remedy my mother taught us how to make using beeswax, oil, and calendula. All very rare in the underworld, but not in the overworld. But don’t sell yourself short. If I was still bleeding, it wouldn’t have helped as much.”

I flush, wishing I could put some distance between us so I could breathe. With no other choice, I back up until my butt hits the edge of the counter and sit on it. It would help if I didn’t still need him within arms’ reach.

Realizing this, he steps into the gap between my knees. The act is innocent, one meant to make things easier for me. It does anything but and completely negates the space I desperately need. I swallow, trying—failing—to refocus.

“How does it look?”

His shoulder. He’s talking about his shoulder.

“It’s already healing,” I observe. Finally getting my shit together, I start going through the motions of redressing it. I smear antiseptic across the sutures and he sucks in a breath. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he grits out. His tired eyes drink me in. “How are you?”

“I’m”—how am I?—“alive.”

He huffs. “Obviously. I mean, how are you doing?”

I shrug, enraged I feel the press of tears again. Have I not cried out every ounce of liquid in me by now?

“I was scared,” I whisper past the lump in my throat, focused on the gauze I’m holding in place while tearing off a piece of medical tape with my teeth. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

“So did I. At Beliar’s.”

I still can’t look at him. “Is that why you kissed me?”

He’s silent for a few beats. “It’s why I kissed you then, in that moment. I knew I was marching off to near-certain death. Maybe I should have been more frightened. But all I could think of was how your mouth felt against mine in my dreams, and how dying without knowing what kissing you was really like seemed like such a waste.”

In my dreams. I meet his dark gaze. “I thought you don’t dream.”

“Not until you.”

His words destroy my resolve. “Were you dreaming about kissing me in the motel?”

He stiffens, caught. “Among other things.”

Warmth tidal-slams my belly. I look up at him through my lashes. “And did the kiss live up to your wildest imagination?”