Page 205 of What We Burn

“Of course you did.”

I crawl over Knox and fold myself into Eli’s side. His arm closes around me immediately, his mouth pressing into my wet hair, and I feel him exhale—some of the day’s terror finally leaving his body through mine.

“Stay put,” he murmurs.

“For at least eight hours,” I agree. “Maybe nine.”

The lights go off. Bodies settle. Knox’s hand finds my ankle. Micah’s fingers tangle with mine over Eli’s stomach. Somewhere to my left, Milo starts breathing like a hibernating bear, and Holden says, “Snore and I’ll make a call to Dean about putting you in the morgue.”

“Joke’s on you, I’ve slept in a morgue before and I find it very restful.”

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Then Eli’s. Holden’s. Micah’s. Knox’s. All six, one after another, a little chorus of chimes in the dark.

I reach for mine.

GROUP CHAT — PROJECT DEAD MAN TEXTING

MILO:

TEST — You killed me. You buried me. You blocked me. But I’m still breathing down your neck. Jk. It’s Milo. System active. Also I love you. All of you. Even Holden who is super grumpy and just threatened me.

HOLDEN:

Go to sleep, Milo.

MILO:

Noted. Logging off to dream about the murder kitten. Goodnight, sweet freaks.

I set the phone down, and Eli pulls me closer, and the last thing I register before sleep takes me is the collar snug at my throat and six heartbeats in one room, and not a single one of them asking me to be anyone else.

FIFTY-TWO

MICAH

Something smells like bacon.

I surface slow, coming up in layers. First the warmth. Then the weight of her against me, her back curved into my chest, my arm draped over her waist, our legs tangled in a way that’s going to require a negotiation to undo. Then the light—amber and low, late afternoon sun coming through the gap in the curtains, painting a stripe across the floor.

The bed is quieter than when all six of us collapsed into it at sunrise. The others have already peeled themselves out one by one, leaving cooling dents in the mattress and the two of us tangled in the middle.

We’ve slept the whole day. I don’t remember the last time I did that. Even when my bar shifts run into the early hours, I’m up in the a.m. Sleeping past noon feels like a moral failing. But Sage is still pressed against me, breathing in that deep, even rhythm that means she’s actually resting—not faking it, not lying still and waiting for the next crisis—and I couldn’t have moved even if the house was on fire.

The bacon smell gets stronger. Someone’s cooking. There’s the clatter of pans, the hiss of oil, and underneath it, Milo humming something I can’t quite place. He’s the only person I know who hums while he cooks. Knox is silent in the kitchen. Holden is methodical. Eli doesn’t cook at all—he makes drinks, orders takeout or scoops ice cream. But Milo treats every meal like a performance, soundtrack included.

Sage shifts against me and makes a small sound. She’s in that liminal space where her guard is down and her body is soft and warm and unmarked by the things she carries when she’s vertical.

Except she is marked. I can feel them under my fingertips—the raised line of the paddle welts across her ass, the faint abrasion at her wrists from the cuffs, the swollen bruise at her temple, purple spreading beneath the skin. A map of last night written on her skin, and every mark besides the bruise on her temple was put there by someone who loves her. I don’t know what that says about us. I don’t know if I want to.

My thumb traces a slow circle on her hip. She stirs.

“What time is it?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“Late. Almost dinner, I think.”

“Dinner?” She turns her head to look at me, her face creased from the pillow. Her hair is a disaster, tangled, sticking up on one side in a way that makes her look about nineteen. “We slept all day? I was supposed to go to work.”