Cash is beside me.
On top of the quilts.
Stroking my back. “Hey. You okay?”
I swipe my nose.
Shit.
I’m crying.
Fucking dream.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
Why should he? We both know I’m lying.
“You have bad dreams often?”
I shake my head.
He grunts.
Once again, we both don’t believe me.
Have I had bad dreams while we’ve both been in Malibu at the same time? Does he sleep with his windows open? Could he have heard me if I did?
“You warm enough?” he asks.
I nod, but at the same time, I shiver.
I try not to, but I do. My fingers are cold. My nose is cold. I’m still wiping tears off my face like they’re not there.
I hate crying in front of people.
It’s weakness.
Also, the streaks where the tears fall are cold.
Fire’s a little low again.
He shoves up from the mattress, grabs a log, and tosses it on. We’re both silent as it catches, sending a brighter glow through the room. I shift and settle back under the covers. I’m shivering far more than I should be this close to the fire.
And then he does the best-worst thing he can do, and he takes the two quilts he’s been using on the couch and shakes them out over the two quilts I’m already using on the mattress.
And then he climbs under the covers with me.
Heat touches my skin as he curls up behind me, one arm looped around my belly. He’s shed his outer layers and is down to his T-shirt and jeans, but he’s still radiating heat.
“Go back to sleep,” he says softly. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
You’re safe. I’ve got you. “People in my life don’t say that kind of thing to me,” I whisper.
“Then you need better people.”
I have better people. Waverly would leap mountains to get here if she knew I needed a friend, and Cooper would be right beside her.
