Page 137 of What We Burn

“I want to be dead,” Sage mumbles.

“Toast it is.” Amy smiles bright and leaves.

From the living room, I hear Jamie’s voice. “Should I do margarine and jelly or is she a peanut butter person? This feels like a critical decision and I don’t want to get it wrong.”

“Honey,” Amy says. “And make one for the grump in the bed too.”

“The handsome grump or the scary grump?”

“There’s only one grump in the bed at the moment, Jamie.”

“Right. The handsome scary one. Got it.”

Sage snorts against my chest. It turns into a groan as another cramp hits and she curls tighter, pressing the hot water bottle harder against her abdomen. I put my hand over hers, adding pressure the way I’ve seen it done—firm, steady, grounding.

“That helps,” she whispers.

“Good.”

She tilts her head up, and I lean down and press my lips to hers, kissing her softly.

“That helps too.”

The front door opens. Footsteps. A rustling of bags.

“I didn’t know what kind to get.” Eli’s voice carries from the hallway. “So I got all of them. And chocolate. And something called a—what is this—a menstrual heating pad with lavender infusion? The woman at the pharmacy recommended it.”

“My hero,” Sage calls weakly from the bed.

Eli appears in the doorway. He’s carrying two plastic bags and he looks like he hasn’t slept. Dark circles, rumpled shirt, hair going in four directions. He sees me in the bed with Sage and goes still for exactly one second. Something passes between us. Not hostility. More like two men acknowledging that they’re both in deep.

“Holden,” he says.

“Eli.”

“I should have called you back.”

“Yeah.”

He nods. I don’t look away. There’s something different in him. I can’t pin it yet, but he’s carrying his shoulders like they weigh less.

“Put the chocolate on the nightstand,” I say. “And give me one of those heating pads.”

He does. He sets a bar of dark chocolate and a lavender pad beside the bed, then stands there, hands in his pockets, looking at Sage in my arms with an expression I can’t fully read.

“There’s tea,” Sage tells him. “And Jamie made toast.”

“Jamie’s still here?”

“You would have walked past him.” She winces through another cramp. “Go drink tea and be social. I’ll be fine. Holden’s warm.”

Eli looks at me. I nod. He turns and heads for the kitchen, and I hear him greet Jamie and Amy in that careful, measured voice he uses when he’s surrounded by people and trying to act normal. The teacher voice. But it sounds less rehearsed than usual. Rougher around the edges.

Sage tilts her head up. “You’re angry at him.”

“I’m not angry. I just . . . I don’t trust him the way I used to.” My fingers drift to the faint mark on her neck, and I wonder if it’ll ever fully fade away.

“I understand,” she whispers. “Thank you for coming.”