She holds still. And yeah, maybe I'm enjoying this a little. Payback for all those mornings in my shirt, making me forget how to think straight.
The wound looks better. The angry red has faded to pink, the edges pulling together clean.
"These have to come off," I say, working the first strip free. "Seal's done its job. Now it needs air to finish."
"Seems counterintuitive. Breaking what's protecting it."
"Sometimes that's how healing works. Hold on too long, it heals wrong. Gotta break it open. Let it breathe."
She's quiet. I keep working. One strip, then another. Her fingers dig into her thighs.
In the mirror, I watch her watch me. Her chest rising and falling too fast. Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip.
I should say something else. Break the tension. Instead my palm stays where it is, flat against her shoulder, against the place where her skin is knitting itself back together.
She exhales. Shaky.
My thumb traces the edge of the scar—pink and shiny, still tender. She shivers. Not from cold.
"It'll fade," I say. My voice comes out rough.
"I don't mind it." Barely a whisper. "Scars mean you survived."
Her eyes find mine in the mirror. Hold.
My hand is still on her shoulder. All I'd have to do is lean down. Press my mouth to the curve of her neck. Drag my tusk across that soft pink skin and feel her shudder.
She tilts her head. Just slightly. Baring her throat.
Fuck.
I step back so fast I knock the chair into the wall.
"Diesel—"
"I need a shirt." Already moving. "Stay there."
I don't look back. If I look back, I'm not making it to the bedroom.
***
She's at her laptop again. Hasn't typed a word in days.
I found a notebook in Murphy's stuff last night. Set it next to her elbow.
She looks at it, then at me.
"Screen's not staring back at you," I say.
She takes it to the bedroom without a word.
I stay on the couch. Listen to the scratch of pen on paper through the wall. Steady. Rhythmic. The sound of her finding her way back to herself.
I wait until it stops. Until the light under her door goes dark. Until her breathing slows into something even and deep.
Then I go to her.
She doesn't wake when I ease onto the mattress. Doesn't stir when the frame creaks under my weight.
