“Oh.” I laugh, the sound brittle with embarrassment. Why would he hesitate? It’s not like there’s anything between us. “Good idea.”
I sink under the covers, wrapping them close as I curl onto my side. The bed is softer than I expected, and smells of laundry detergent. I hear the snick of the lock, then the scrape of furniture across the floor.
The bed dips as he slides in beside me, the springs protesting softly. Heat radiates from his body, but he keeps a careful distance between us, our bodies like opposing magnets, painfully aware of each other.
I lie rigid as a corpse, staring at the wall, counting breaths. One, two, three. Ten, eleven. My arm throbs from the cuts, and the back of my head throbs where the reverend hit me. Behind me, Julien’s breathing sounds controlled, slow.
The mattress sags in the middle, an insistent dip constantly tugging me to him. I resist, holding my position at the very edge of my side.
Earlier, after boredom won, I looked through the office and found out the couple had gone away to beach paradise. If it broke out there, too?
“So,” I finally say, because the quiet is killing me, “I’m guessing the couple that lived here were big on cuddling. Given this Grand Canyon in the middle of their mattress. Real cozy.”
His laugh is short and low. “Yeah.”
This is awful.
Like we’re strangers making awkward small talk in an elevator.
I curl my legs up, the sheet rustling with my movement, and close my eyes, trying to ignore the lingering scent of soap on both our skins.
Sleep evades me like a skittish animal. The pictures of the day, my mind conjures, fight the exhaustion that wants to take over my body.
Suddenly, the mattress shifts, and Julien’s arm slides around my waist.
I flinch, every muscle tensing.
“Sorry.” He starts to withdraw. “I thought… You seemed cold.”
My hand moves before my brain catches up, my fingers digging in his forearm before he can fully retreat. His skin is warm under my palm, the dusting of hair rough against my skin. We hang suspended in the moment—his arm half-withdrawn, my grip stopping him.
What am I doing?
“I’m cold,” I whisper.
Without comment, he envelops me from behind, one arm winding around my waist, the other beneath my head, tentative at first, then more secure as I settle back against him. His warmth seeps into me, chasing away a chill in my bones. Our bodies fit together with impossible ease, molding into the mattress’s center like we were made to be there.
Like we were responsible for the dip.
Dust motes dance like tiny stars in the beam of the moonlight. Outside, the wind picks up, the old house settling with soft creaks and groans, and further away, the shambling of the dead. But in here, there’s Julien and the steady rhythm of his breathing against my neck.
All the terror I’ve been shoving down, the wedding that wasn’t, the knife at Amelia’s throat, my mother and my father, the reverend, it rushes up my throat like bile.
My breath hitches.
No. Not now.
I bite down hard on my lip, tasting copper. Force my breathing to even out. One, two, three. I’ve held it together this long. Through everything. I can hold it a little longer.
But my chest tightens, ribs compressing like someone’s stepping on them. A sob builds in my throat, and I swallow it back down where it belongs.
“Hey.” Julien’s voice rumbles against my back. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” My voice cracks on the second word.
“Hold it in.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
