He holds my gaze as his fingers glide over mine. Like blood rushing into a numbed limb, sensation floods me. I feel everything.
The calloused pad of his thumb, tracing circles over my palm. The light catching his nails, clipped short, on hands large and rough-hewn with scars.
A strong hand. A farmer’s hand.
He shifts closer, and the scent of him—earth and wool and wood smoke—fills my lungs.
Other smells follow, vivid and familiar. Barn hay. Damp animal fur. Oiled leather. The smells of my childhood.
It comforts me. I exhale.
But then unease creeps through me. This place didn’tsmell like that before I fell. It would’ve hit me the moment the door opened.
We stare at our hands. He’s frozen in place, fingers cupping mine so lightly it’s like I’m a wild bird he’s afraid might fly away.
A peculiar urge tugs at me. To lace my fingers through his. To hold on.
But the longer I feel it, the less it makes sense.
Fear seeps in at the edges. I’m both drawn and repelled. Like a magnet hovering just out of place.
“If neither of us are ghosts,” I whisper, “then are you really real?”
His face goes still. He pulls from me.
“Wait—” But then I freeze, mesmerized.
He’s reaching for my face.
“We’d best test it, shall we?” His voice is a low rasp as his knuckles brush my cheek.
A shuddering sigh escapes me before I can stop it.
“You’re so bonnie,” he murmurs.
I should be creeped out. But he looks startled, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
I laugh, nervous and awkward. But he doesn’t. Not even the hint of a smile.
When he pulls away, a strange, aching loss grips me. A flicker of something crosses his face. Like he feels it too.
Slowly, tentatively, he reaches for me again. Cups my cheek.
A tug pulls deep in my belly—like I’m falling all over again, and he’s gravity itself.
“Seems we’re both quite alive,” he whispers.
I am. Unbearably alive.
Invigorated. Exhilarated. Like a cool breeze has swept the cobwebs from my mind.
But as clarity descends, so does a sickening realization. He was in my room, watching me. And yet he’s not a ghost, which means?—
I jerk back. Cold suspicion spikes in my veins. “Are you some kind of stalker?”
His brow furrows. “Stalker?”
A rush of fear pitches my voice higher. “Yes, stalker. Were you stalking me?”
