Still, I fold myself under the blanket and turn on my side to face them.
“This feels wildly irresponsible of us.”
“What does?” He mirrors me, elbow tucked, head angled toward mine.
“This. Us. Sleeping six inches apart.”
“Six?” he echoes. “Try eight.”
I roll my eyes, smiling. It feels dangerous. Too sweet.
Firelight touches his cheek, warms his lashes, softens everything sharp about him.
I sink back, pillow cradling my head, and stare up at the beams where shadows drift like ink. His breathing is slow, measured.
Mine isn’t. I count each exhale like a handhold. And somewhere in that hush, with the storm gripping the house and the fire holding the dark at bay, I understand: I’m not being asked to stop being afraid. I’m only being asked to try.
21
WELLS
The couch creakswhen Elsie shifts, blanket rustling. I know she’s not asleep. Not even close. How could she be when I’m over here suffering every inch of space between us?
I have two quilts beneath me, one on top, but the rug doesn’t care how many layers I stack up. It’s still unforgiving. My shoulders ache, my knee’s stiff from earlier. But I keep still because she drew a line tonight, and I’m not crossing it before she’s ready.
Firelight rolls across the ceiling beams. I let myself look at her for a second. Her profile, soft in the glow. Her ankle sticking out from under the blanket. Hemingway curled in the crook of her knees like he’s her personal guard.
If I weren’t so disciplined, I’d reach for her. Hook a finger in the blanket. Anchor myself by her wrist and admit the truth: I like her here. I like her within reach. I like that wanting her feels like breathing again after months of holding my breath.
The wind bellows against the shutters, and the house groans back.
Elsie flinches.
“You’re not sleeping,” I say.
“Neither are you,” she answers, eyes on the ceiling.
“Floor’s a bastard.”
She twists again. “Can’t be worse than this couch. There’s a spring trying to sever my spine.”
Another squirm. Another huff. She’s so fed up she bolts upright, drags the blanket with her, and drops onto the rug beside me.
I lift my head. “So much for the gentleman thing.”
She ignores me, flattening herself on her side. She rolls. Scoots. Wriggles around like she can bully the floor into softness. Pinches her eyes shut, stubborn as anything.
I almost laugh. She’s hopeless.
“Comfortable?” I ask.
“Perfect,” she lies. “Absolutely blissful.”
Her hair falls forward in a loose curl, tickling her nose. She blows at it once. Twice. On the third try, I give in. I prop onto an elbow and brush it back for her. My knuckles skim her temple.
“Don’t force it, Els.”
Her eyes snap open. “What?”
