Page 88 of Heat Lightning

Those quiet, intimate moments just before falling asleep, when our breathing was the only sound in the world, were some of my favorites of this whole heat—even more so than the mind-bending orgasms.

I wanted his face. I wanted his trust.

What he did didn’t matter to me. I’d protect his secrets with every last bone in my body. I was glad someone like him made the world safer.

But what could I say to convince him?

I had this overwhelming feeling we weren’t meant to be apart—like fate had brought us together on that awful day two years ago as an apology for everything else.

It was honestly rude to ignore it.

“Would you rather watch something else?” I asked, going for teasing and landing somewhere between worn out and so desperately hopeful it was embarrassing. “It’s been forever since I saw Free Willy.”

He chuckled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “No. Let’s finish this.”

I was getting very good at reading his expressions in the mask, to the point where it felt silly for him to keep wearing it. He’d been inside me every which way—I’d recognize him anywhere.

Toward the end of the movie, during a particularly angsty scene, I was doing my best to hide my tears when he began sniffing in a way that sounded suspiciously like he was doing the same.

“Are you crying?” I asked.

“No. And I thought this was going to be more like a documentary,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Not something sad.”

The obvious lie made me snort, and then I was belly laughing and crying at the same time. I probably looked insane.

Clearly affronted, he asked, “Are you actually laughing at me for crying?”

I shook my head no, trying to explain myself, but I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to do so.

Atlas, the Masked Man, stalker of the shadows, vigilante killer feared by the worst dregs of humanity, was crying about an old lady and an octopus.

He huffed, a smile finally finding his eyes, and he reached out, pulling me onto his lap. “It’s mean to laugh at people for crying, you know.”

I collected myself and wiped my face with the sleeves of his hoodie—the only thing I’d worn the last few days. “I’m not making fun of you. I just would’ve never imagined being here after the way we met.”

His eyes darted all over my face, and I held my breath, wondering what he’d say. But then he just knocked his forehead into mine and turned me around to face the television again. “We’re missing the movie.”

He held me softly and didn’t let me go, and by the end, we were both a mess.

“Here,” he said, offering me the tissue box.

I wiped my face. “Thanks. Fuck, now I want food. Crying always makes me hungry.”

“Want any of your snacks? Or I can try making something. I’m not as good a cook as you, but I’ll give it a go.”

I blushed. No one ever offered to make food for me.

Gwen said I was a control freak in the kitchen—which, okay, maybe I was. But he’d catered to every whim and desire I’d had the last few days, and I felt good. Not worn out or depleted like I usually was by this time in a heat.

Atlas, on the other hand, looked exhausted and strung out. The repeated waves followed by an unclaimed bond were eating at him. I was beginning to doubt his theory that all we had to do was go our separate ways when it finished, but saying something felt like disturbing the tentative calm that remained.

“No, I’ll make something for us,” I said, patting him on the chest. “I miss it, and you look like you could be taken care of for once.”

While I rooted through the fridge, I thought about my words.

Atlas was a provider. A fixer. A figure-things-out kind of man. Like his namesake, he carried so much. Did he have someone to do the same for him? Who held the man with the world on his shoulders?

I would. I would hold you.