“You did this a lot?” she asks, not looking up.
“Enough.”
She cleans the blood off her feet, working fast, jaw tight. She doesn’t even flinch when she pours the alcohol on the cuts, just sets her mouth in a line and hisses through her teeth.
I watch her, because I can’t not.
After a minute, she glances up. “You staring at me because you’re worried, or because you want to fuck me?”
“Both.”
She snorts. “Good answer.”
She finishes with the bandages, then leans back, head against the wall, closing her eyes. I see her throat work, just a little. She’s exhausted.
I grab a bottle from the counter and pour us both a shot. She takes it, clinks it against mine, and drinks. I don’t think she even tastes it.
For a long time, neither of us says anything. I stand in the doorway, every muscle still lit up from the walk, the fight, the million years of survival that brought me here.
She sits on the couch, legs curled under her, bandaged feet propped up on the table. Her hair is wild, her face still smeared with dirt and dried blood, and I think she’s never looked better.
“Why’d you bring me here instead of fucking me in one of their bedrooms?” she asks, eyes still closed.
I shrug, even though she can’t see. “It’s safe.”
“There’s safe and then there’s safe with you,” she says, and I hear the echo of something old and hurt in her voice. “You’re not the only one who thinks about killing everyone in the room, Bam.”
I move to her, slow so I don’t spook her, and sit on the arm of the couch. My hand finds the back of her neck. I don’t squeeze, just let the heat of my skin seep into hers.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I say.
She opens her eyes. The gold in them is bright, almost molten. “That’s the scariest part,” she whispers.
I don’t say anything. I just sit there, hand on her neck, and let the silence do what it’s supposed to. The world outside is still chaos. The war isn’t over even though the battle was won. But in here, right now, we’re alive.
She shifts closer, shoulder pressed into my thigh, and I feel her relax. Just a little.
Maybe that’s enough.
We sit in the dark, listening to the wind rattle the window, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not waiting for the next punch.
I’m waiting for her.
And I’ll wait all night, if she wants.
We don’t move for a long time. The clock on the wall is loud, each second hammering a spike into the quiet. I stare at the ceiling. She stares at the bandages on her feet.
She makes the first move. She uncurls herself and stands, every muscle wired, the wounds on her feet already leaking through the bandage and she flinches as they hit the floor.
I want to pick her up, but I wait.
She doesn’t ask permission. She limps past me, deeper into the cabin, flicking on the lights as she goes.
She stops at the bedroom door.
“Yours?” she says, one eyebrow up.
I nod.
