She dips the cloth again, presses gently. She bites her lip with each touch, like she can feel the hurt with me.
“You’re healing,” she says softly, “but not fast enough.”
“I’ll live.”
“I’m not sure I will if you do something like that again.”
I glance down. Her eyes are wet again—but not from fear. She’sangrywith me.
Good.
Anger is life. Anger is hers. The fungus hasn’t touched it.
She kisses my shoulder. I flinch, not from pain, but from the shock of how warm, howdeliberate, it is. Her lips brush a spot where the new skin’s still raw, and I swear something inside me jerks back to life.
“You should sleep,” she says.
“So should you.”
“I will. After.”
She curls beside me, blankets bunched beneath her hips, head tucked into the crook of my neck. I close my eyes. The pain is still there, but duller now. Managed.
Her hand stays on my chest.
The last thing I remember is her whispering something soft, something I can’t quite catch. But it wraps around me like warmth. Like home.
I wake before her.
Her body is curled like a comma against mine. One leg slung over my hip, one hand still splayed across my chest. Her hair’s a tangled mess, streaked with soot and dried salt from her tears. And still—she’s beautiful.
She doesn’t sleep like the others. Doesn’t hum. Doesn’t twitch. Just breathes, slow and steady.
And for a moment, I forget.
Forget the fungus. The camp. The war before this one. All I know is the woman beside me and the way my chest rises to match hers.
She stirs, blinking awake.
“Mmmph,” she groans, stretching.
Her eyes land on mine.
She smiles.
No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just… that smile. Like waking up beside a half-scorched monster is normal.
She leans up and presses a kiss to my collarbone.
“I still have soot on my face, don’t I?”
I nod.
“Great.” She wipes it off with the heel of her hand, then shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You look like hell too.”
I chuckle. My ribs protest, but I don’t stop.
“Did you mean what you said?” she asks suddenly. “That I shouldn’t have come back?”
