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“You should take the painkillers.”
“I can’t.”
“They won’t find us here. You said it yourself.”
“I said it would be unlikely. Not impossible.”
Finley’s dark eyebrows knit, her gaze laser focused on her handiwork. Her nimble fingers are so precise. Artist’s hands.
“So let me take watch.”
The edge of my mouth twitches. I contain it. “You?”
Her eyes flicker to mine briefly. “That’s what you soldiers do, right? You trade posts.”
“As much as I appreciate it…I think I’d feel better with a clear head all the same.”
She sighs. “Do boys ever stop being stubborn?”
“Only when we’re dead.”
She tucks the edge of the wrap around itself. “Is that too tight?”
“It’s perfect. You should’ve been a nurse.”
She sighs deeply. “Alas, my artistic soul. I picked the path with no secure salary.”
“Until you sell your first painting for millions.”
Her eyes brighten at that. The thick shell around my heart splinters.
“For…security purposes,” she says. “It probably makes sense for us to stay close. Just in case.”
“Are you inviting yourself to my bed?”
“If you want.”
“I do.”
“Okay. I’ll get changed.”
“Wait.”
Before she leaves, she turns and blinks at me.
I ask, “Which room has less stuffed animals?”
“Do they freak you out?”
“It’s the black, beady eyes.”
“Yours. She had sisters.”
“Ah. My bed it is.”
She clicks her tongue and gives a half salute before exiting.
I finish drying off and get into my briefs. They did my laundry at some point—I’m not going to ask if it was Sid or Finley who got me out of my clothes while I was sleeping, but fresh briefs honestly feel like a luxury right now. I climb into my bed, and when I twist, pain slices down the middle of me, and I suck in air sharply.
