Even though the day was scorching, it’s cool now, almost cold. Simon tightens his arm around me. He’s not as hot as he used to be. (Literally. He’s a less combustible combustion engine.) But, Crowley, he’s still so warm.
I try not to think about how long it’s been since I felt him like this. Against me, shoulder to knee. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll hold on too tight. I’ll do whatever I did in the first place to scare him away.
He points to the sky above us, black as pitch here in the desert and filled with twinkling stars.I see them, Snow, I’m not blind.
When his right arm drops, he winds that one around me, too. I close my eyes.
What is this? Why is he letting me this close?
Is this a real change? Or just a middle-of-the-night, middle-of-the-desert exception?
Am I only allowed to hold him when we’re on the run?
SIMON
Baz’s hands finally come to me. Up the back of my shirt. Familiar and cold.
You’d never think you could crave someone cold, that you’d find yourself always moving closer to them because of it. But Baz is the kind of cold I want to cover.
(His hands are feather light on my back. Feather light and chilled through.)
I want to warm him by hand. By heat, by cheek, by stomach.
I bring my wings up around us and press him into the truck bed, pressing myself into every grey inch.
When was the last time…
No. Don’t think about the last time.
Don’t think it might be now.
Don’t think.
I’m wet from the river spirit. My nose is the same temperature as Baz’s chin.
I knock my face into his. I hang over him.
This is the point, the proximity, where I usually pull away.
“Can I?” I say, pressing in. I’m not sure he’ll hear me, over everything.
BAZ
His hair is sticky with dust. His face is cold and damp. He’s clumsy like this. Hitting me with his chest. Shouldering me. Butting my head back into the metal of the truck.
I touch Simon Snow like he’s made of glass. Like he’ll explode if I cross the wrong wires.
He touches me like he can’t decide whether to push or pull me, and he’s settled on both.
I go where he wants. I take what I can get.
“Can I?” he asks.
Can you what, Simon? Kiss me? Kill me? Break my heart?
I touch him like he’s made of butterfly wings.
“You don’t have to ask.” I say it loud enough that he’ll hear me, over everything.
