I send up more thanks, then slip on the thickest, softest one. I moan as it falls over chilled flesh, chasing away the frigid touch of air on skin from my shoulders down, all the way to mid-thigh. I never thought I’d be grateful for the height difference between us, but I could worship his mother right now for producing a son nearly a foot taller than me.
Belinda, you beautiful, beautiful woman. I could kiss you.
As I climb back into bed, I make a mental note to send her a gift, maybe a fruit basket, as soon as I have the funds available for such an expense. I stuff myself under the mound of blankets, and, slowly but surely, my shivering ceases and my eyelids weigh heavy.
Seriously.BlessBelinda.
?
Gasping for air, I awaken in the midst of a blazing stake. The staked witch being me, judging by the suffocating, burning sensation that consumes my existence.
I yell, pushing with all my might against the mountain of blankets piled on me, then screech when they move nary an inch. Craning my head to face the headboard, I work to gift my lungs the merest hint of air despite my self-created prison protesting such a maneuver.Lungs?the bedding ask.What silly thingsto possess. Useless. Here, doesn’t my hug feel so nice without something so egregious as vital human organs to stop me?
A bang sounds from the hallway, then my door bursts open. Not that I canseeit bursting, what with my very busy task of being slowly crushed to death by a million pounds of fabric, but my ears haven’t gotten the memo that we’re dying, yet, so they hear it with perfect precision when Fox blasts through the door, cursing and stumbling on the hardwood floor.
Noise expended, I’m left with only huffs.
I kick sheet-tangled legs and end up further embedded in the horror that is my attempt to combat frostbite.
And then, suddenly, I’m not.
I heave in a ragged, painful breath when Fox pushes the blankets off of me, strong hands going immediately to my waist to drag me up and out of danger.
“How?” he barks once he has me safely upright in his lap, wheezing. “Andwhy?”
I smack his chest weakly, deciding to focus on the longevity of my life rather than aman’sstupid questions. When I get a lock on living, breathing, etc, I puff an irritated, “I wascold,” at him.
His hand tangles in the T-shirt covering me, then, audibly, he gulps. “Where did you get this?” he asks.
I point at the closet. “Where I got every bad thing that’s ever happened to me,” I retort. “There. In the closet of doom.”
He rubs the fabric at my thigh between his fingers. “I didn’t know I still had this,” he mutters.
I aim my eyes down to see what, exactly, he’d forgotten, and am surprised to find a T-shirt that I’m sure to appreciate once I’m finished not dying. Soft and thick despite its clear age, the logo for an 80s hair band stares back at me from a black canvas. Holes dot the fabric, including a particularly scandalous one showing off an inch of pink lace at my chest.
“You don’t still have this,” I decide. “This is mine, actually. Always has been.”
He makes a low noise in his throat, not quite a groan, but not really a moan either. Some other, agonized in-between sound.
We’ll just be ignoring what that sound does to my heart rate, thank you.
“I’m not sure what you’re complaining about,” I grump. “I’m the one who nearly died just now.”
“You can’t take my shirt,” he replies. “Even if you did nearly die. Why are you wearing this anyway?”
“I was cold,” I repeat, pushing off his lap. My feet hit soft, plush rug as I cross my arms, hip jutting. “Is there some reason that you turn your apartment into Antarctica when you sleep?Doyou sleep, or do you go into a cryosleep instead?”
His eyes roll. “I can’t sleep if it’s hot.”
I cannot fathom what this man’s electric bill looks like. “We’re going to need to find a compromise here,” I reply. “Because I can’t sleep when it’s negative one hundred, and my solution clearly did not work.” I point at the mound of blankets. Exhibit A.
He follows my finger, lounging into the death covers. “We’ll go get you a heated blanket,” he offers. “Maybe steal mine back from Almond. And while we’re out, we can stop by your house to grab you appropriate pajamas.”
“Stopping by my house is a great idea,” I agree, dabbing at non-existent tears.
He freezes, eyes alert. “Why are you crying?”
I sniff. “I’m just so proud. Baby’s first intelligent thought. It’smoving.”
