The bed was three feet away. Might as well have been miles.
My body gave out halfway.
Collapsed, catching myself on my good arm before we both hit the floor again. Gasping. Everything was pain. The cold making it worse, shock setting in, fever climbing under my skin despite the freezing air.
Can’t stop. Get her onto the bed. Get her warm.
Pulled again. One foot. Another. Her weight against me felt simultaneously too heavy and fragile, she’d break if I wasn’t careful.
The bed frame hit the back of my legs. I used it for leverage, forcing myself upright enough to lift her onto the mattress. She made a sound, small, pained, when I moved her, but her lids stayed closed.
Blood in her hair. My fingers shaking as I checked the wound again. Not deep. Bleeding slowing already. A scalp laceration. Probably.
I grabbed the blankets, pulled them over her. Tucking them around her shoulders, her sides, keeping her core warm.
But my grip was shaking. And the cold was biting into my bare skin, making tremors worse. And fresh blood soaked through bandages, dripping onto the floor.
Running out of time. If I passed out now, we’d both freeze. Both die. No one would find us until it was too late.
Move. Get under the covers. Share warmth. Stay conscious.
The assessment came automatic. But something underneath resisted, this was too close. Too intimate. I’d already touched her too much, invaded her space, taken from her when she’d given everything.
Except she was unconscious and bleeding and I was the only thing standing between her and hypothermia.
No choice.
I slid under the covers beside her. The heat was immediate, shocking after the freezing air. Her body radiated warmth, fever or just normal temperature, didn’t matter which. It was heat. Life.
My system curved toward it automatically, seeking warmth by instinct. The movement pulled torn muscles in my side, sent fresh agony through my shoulder. Didn’t stop my body from settling closer, from angling toward her heat.
Wrong. This is wrong. Too close.
But I couldn’t make myself pull away. Couldn’t force distance when distance meant cold, meant losing consciousness, meant failing to keep watch when she needed someone watching.
She shifted in sleep, her back pressing against my front. Small frame fitting against mine like she belonged there. Her inhales steady and even, her heartbeat visible in the pulse at her throat.
Alive. Still alive.
My palm moved without permission, resting on her side. Feeling her breathe. Feeling proof of life under my touch.
The possessiveness in the gesture should scare me. This protective instinct that had driven me off the bed, across the floor, had made me rip open wounds just to reach her.
It didn’t.
Just felt... necessary. Right in a way I didn’t understand.
She’s your only option. Your solution. The only person who can answer questions you can’t ask.
That was it. Had to be. Assessment. She had information I needed, who I was, where I came from, why I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t let anything happen to her until I understood.
Until I could leave.
Liar.
Unbidden. True.
Because my palm on her side wasn’t counting breaths. It was just... touching. Feeling her warmth, her aliveness, the way her body fit against mine under the covers.
