His breath catches.
"Okay?" His voice cracks. "You mean—"
"I'm staying."
The bed is bigger than I expected. Oversized—made for someone larger than human. Still not meant for two.
I don't care.
I stand. His hand tightens on mine—instinct, or fear, I don't know.
"I'm not leaving." I kick off my shoes. "Scoot over."
"Eden—"
"I'm getting in that bed. You can argue, or you can save your strength. Your choice."
A sound escapes him—almost a laugh. "Stubborn."
"Learned from the best."
I figure out how to slide in without hurting him. It takes maneuvering—his shoulder is a no-go zone, and I'm careful of his wrapped ribs. But eventually I'm there, pressed against his uninjured side, my head on his chest.
He's warm. Warmer than he should be—probably still fighting off fever. He smells like antiseptic and bandages and, underneath it, sawdust and pine and skin. I breathe it in.
Something in my chest unlocks. A tightness I've been carrying so long I forgot it was there.
I can hear his heartbeat under my ear. Still going.
His arm comes around me—not much pressure, but there.
"Rest now," I tell him. "You need to heal."
"Only if you stay."
"I promise." I press my lips to his chest, just over his heart. "I'm not going anywhere."
His breathing evens out and his body goes slack beneath me as sleep pulls him under again.
I close my eyes. His chest rises and falls beneath me, steady now.
Today I killed a man. The guilt still hasn't come.
Maybe it never will.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, words are stirring. Not a full sentence yet. Just the shape of one. The beginning of something I might write, someday, when I'm ready to make sense of all this.
I'm not ready yet. But I will be.
Diesel's hand is still on my wrist. Even in sleep, he's holding on.
So am I.
Epilogue
Eden
Six months later.
