“I don’t care.”
I almost kiss her again. Almost close the distance and lose myself in her all over again. But I hear footsteps in the hallway, and the moment stretches thin.
“Elijah?” She’s still touching my face. “Whatever happens... thank you. For seeing me.”
I don’t trust my voice. So I turn my head and press a kiss to her palm—the palm I just finished wrapping, soft gauze against my lips—and hope she understands.
I stand, my knees protesting from kneeling on the tile floor, and offer her my hand. She takes it, letting me pull her to her feet, and doesn’t let go.
We stand there in the tiny bathroom, her hand in mine, her scent surrounding me, candlelight flickering across her face. Itshould feel awkward. Cramped. Instead it feels like the most intimate moment of my life.
“Dinner’s ready!”Ben’s voice echoes down the hall. “If you two are done having a moment in there, the pasta’s getting cold!”
Tessa laughs—watery but real—and the tension breaks.
“How does he always know?” she asks.
“He doesn’t. He just assumes we’re all having moments all the time and eventually he’s right.” I squeeze her hand. “Come on.”
We walk out together.
The main room is warm, lit by firelight and a few battery-powered lanterns Ben found in a closet. Milo’s already at the kitchen table, twirling a fork through a bowl of pasta. Ben’s dishing up more servings, and when he sees us emerge—her flushed, me probably looking wrecked—his eyebrows go up.
“Good talk?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Bandages,” I say.
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t push, just hands Tessa a bowl. “Eat. You need the calories.”
Milo takes one look at us—Tessa’s swollen lips, the way she won’t quite meet anyone’s eyes—and grins. “Well, well.”
“Shut up,” I tell him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think lots of things. It’s part of my charm.” He gestures to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. Tell me if Ben actually managed to make this edible.”
“It’s pasta,” Ben says. “Even I can’t screw up pasta.”
“You screwed up toast last month.”
“The toaster was broken!”
“You set it on fire.”
“That was the toaster’s fault.”
Tessa slides into the chair beside Milo, and I take the one across from her. Our eyes meet over the table—a shared secret, a promise—and she smiles. Small, private, just for me.
I look down at my pasta so I don’t say something stupid.
The meal is simple—spaghetti with jarred sauce, the best we could do with no power—but it’s warm, and the company is good, and Tessa eats two full servings without anyone having to coax her.
After dinner, we move back to the living room. Ben stokes the fire while Milo breaks out a bottle of whiskey he found in Ben’s cabinet. “Medicinal purposes,” he claims, pouring four glasses.
Tessa takes a small sip and makes a face. “That’s awful.”
