“More fire and brimstone? Less eating people’s faces?”
“Something like that.”
“How disappointing for you.”
She shifts on her feet, uncertain of what to say or do now that he’s turned her down, and her embarrassment is at an all-time high.
“For future reference, offering sex like it’s a cup of coffee is gonna get you in a world of trouble out there. Don’t do that. Not with me and sure as fuck, not with anyone else. Not my job to fish you outta whatever situation to get yourself tangled up in.”
“I won’t. I’m sorry.”
She drops the blanket he tossed at her and heads for the door, his words halting her when her palm hits the knob.
“You assume a lot about me, don’t you?”
Addison only shrugs. “I don’t know what to think about anything anymore.”
She doesn’t wait for a reply before escaping to the hall. How could she have been so stupid? What must he think of her now? She wipes her face with the back of her hand and returns to Emma’s room, curling up beside her to snuggle in close.
* * *
Sleep has never come easily for Addison on a good day. Nightmares have plagued her since she found out she was pregnant. She sees terrible things when she closes her eyes, and the stress of the day only heightens those visions.
She wakes up sweating with tears on her cheeks, the darkness in the room telling her she’d been lucky to get a few hours and not much more. Drifting off again is a struggle, so she tucks the blanket around her daughter and heads for the kitchen. She doesn’t expect to see Wyatt already at the table, digging into a bag of jerky.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, lingering at the doorway.
“Me either.”
“I was gonna make some tea, do you want a cup?”
He gives her a noncommittal grunt with a pout on his lips and a firm commitment to avoid eye contact. That’s when she realizes that she hurt his feelings and he’s been stewing over it.
His eyes are bloodshot, telling her that he didn’t get any more sleep than she did. She wonders if he has nightmares, too. If being here in this house is prompting bad memories, or if he sees his dead loved ones behind closed lids, snarling and snapping like one of the infected.
She sets about preparing the old kettle on the stove. Refuses his offer of jerky but notices the red circle burned into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
He flinches backward as she reaches for him. It’s a split-second reaction that surprises her.
“It’s fine,” he growls. “Don’t need you fussing over me. I’m clumsy with my smokes, that’s all. Lucky it didn’t catch fire. I know better than to smoke in the house.”
This one looks purposeful. It’s clear that he held the end to his skin until it marked him.
He doesn’t want her fussing, so she doesn’t, but it’s all she can think of now, and she’s eager to put the pieces together. “Can I ask you something?”
“Not about this.”
“No. Not about that,” she agrees.
“Then go for it.”
She leans against the counter, ankles crossed. “How is it to be back here again?”
“It’s been a long time.” A wrinkle of his nose in something that looks like disgust confuses her. “I wonder if I never should have come at all.”
“Why did you?”
