And cold.
“Why doesn’t he have a blanket?”
Phoenix answers with wry amusement. “Because he keeps kicking them off. But you’re welcome to try again yourself if you want.”
I’m not going to make her repeat herself, just in case she says something different next time.
I approach the nest slowly, telegraphing every movement the way I would with a wounded animal. Each step loud enough that it can’t be mistaken for something else. I lower myself onto the edge of the mattress, not touching, justpresent. Letting Mason adjust to my proximity, my scent, the weight of me on the mattress beside him.
Mason goes rigid.
Every muscle in his body locks tight. His breathing stops. For one terrible, endless moment, I think I’ve made a mistake. Think he’s going to tell me to leave, to get out, that he’s changed his mind and doesn’t want me anywhere near him.
Then, gradually, his body starts to unfurl.
It’s like watching a flower turn toward sunlight it hasn’t felt in years. His shoulders drop. His spine curves toward me. His face lifts from the pillow, gray eyes finding mine through the fever-haze.
“Judah.” My name on his lips is barely a whisper.
My own voice cracks. “I’m right here.”
I reach out with my palm up. An offering rather than a demand. Just my hand, suspended in the space between us, waiting for him to decide.
Mason stares at it for a long, terrible moment. His chest heaves with ragged breaths. His fingers twitch against the sheets.
Then his hand closes around mine.
The contact sends a visible shudder through both of us.
The bond—dormant for a decade, reduced to background static and occasional flickers—roarsback to life. Every synapse fires at once. Every nerve ending ignites. It’s like a circuit being completed after a ten-year blackout, electricity surging through wires that forgot they were connected.
I gasp.
Mason makes a broken sound.
I shift closer. Carefully. Slowly. My arm tentatively comes around his shoulders, ready to retreat at the first sign of resistance.
Mason doesn’t resist.
Hecollapses.
His whole body folds into mine like paper finally allowed to crease where it was always meant to bend. His face presses against my chest. His fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt. He’s trying to crawl inside me, and I want to let him. Want to absorb him completely, wrap myself around every fragile inch of him and keep him safe forever.
My hand moves in slow circles across his bare back. Relearning the topography of a body I used to know by heart. The ridges of his spine. The planes of his shoulder blades. The soft skin at the dip of his lower back where he’s always been ticklish.
Physically, it’s like no time has passed at all. He feels exactly the same.
I cradle his face in both hands, thumbs brushing tears from his cheekbones. When did he start crying? My fingers thread into those damp curls that he always fought to straighten. His hair is longer than it used to be, softer, and I’d forgotten how much I loved the texture of it against my palms.
I press my forehead against his. Our breath mingles. Our noses brush.
“Mace,” I whisper. “God, Mace?—”
He stiffens.
The transformation is instantaneous. One moment he’s melting into me, pliant and trusting. The next he’s rigid as stone, shoving backward with hands that shake against my chest.
“I can’t.” The words come out strangled. “I can’t do this. I can’t?—“
