Less heavy. It felt more real. Longer. Leaner. It felt like Leland.
I blinked at the tattooed arm around my waist, helping me lie back on the floor. His hand cradled my neck, and a pillow slidunder my head.
“Fix it,” Skye said, pointing straight down at me.
“How long has she been like this?” he asked. His eyes were alert, but his voice was husky, a tired, low rumble that matched his mussed-up hair.
“Twenty minutes,” Skye said. “It happens every time she has a nightmare.”
My stomach clenched and I started to cough.
“I need you to leave,” Leland said.
I can’t, I thought. I couldn’t even hold up my head.
“Not you,” Skye said, her voice like an eyeroll.
Oh.
“Are you going to be okay if I leave you with him?” she asked, arms crossed with her face directly over mine.
Out of fear of vomiting all over Leland, I didn’t speak. But I managed a noise, a small squeak from the back of my throat that could’ve meant yes or no. Alone with Leland was always a problem, but Skye had pulled him out of bed, she was tired, my early mornings were wearing on her, and so it was okay, I guessed, if Leland and I had to be alone.
The door clicked shut as Skye went out, leaving Nova on my bed, vigilantly watching.
“I need to check your stomach,” he said. “That okay?”
I stared up at the ceiling, but somewhere in my eyes, I guess he found a nod. His hands slid under my sweatshirt, and he pressed around my abdominal muscles. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to see his reaction to having to wade through my sweat-drenched torso, the pooling in my navel. His hands moved quickly, gently. Warm, like Trist’s had been. And when he tucked my shirt back down, I wasn’t nauseous anymore.
He repositioned himself at my head. “Going to check your head,” he said, just as his thumbs brushed lightly over my temples.
I closed my eyes, and a few minutes later, my headache was gone. He touched the back of his hand to my forehead, and I cooled.
Then he Refreshed my sweatshirt and the rug, calling for Skye after he Vanished the wastebasket, though she was already pushing her way back in.
“What’s wrong with her?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” Leland lied.
“Seems like you do if you made her stop puking.”
“Puking ran its course.”
“Will there beanothercourse when she wakes up again?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Not sure.”
Skye often looked angry, irritated, but always in a loving way, her frowns seconds away from turning into a sly smile. But in that moment, there was nothing loving about the way she looked at Leland. She looked like she might kill him.
“I saidfix,” Skye said. “Nottreat.Fix.”
Too tired to stay and listen, I pulled my hood over my head and crawled back to bed, drawing the canopy curtains for privacy and leaving them to bicker.
I woke a few hours later and felt fine, except for the desperate need to brush my teeth in the washroom. I pulled aside the canopy and found Leland asleep in the middle of our floor, his head on the pillow he’d Created for me, his legs under a thin, wool, travel blanket. Did he deplete last night? Is that why he hadn’t made it back to his room?
Quietly, I got out of bed and lightly stepped around him. Only he wasn’t sleeping.
His hand closed in a circle around my ankle, and his eyes popped open. There was a privacy bubble, a chill, and the fireplace clicked on as his fingers stayed locked around my ankle, holding me in place to listen.
