“You’re warm,” I say.
His whole body brightens, gold flooding his edges, and I realize that he wants to hear me narrate this.
That my voice describing what I feel is its own form of contact for him.
“You’re always this warm?”
“Not always. My surface responds to—” He stops. The violet deepens. “It responds to touch.”
I curl my fingers against his surface and watch the color follow, a comet tail of gold and violet trailing each point of contact.
My heart is fast and tender and a little terrified.
Outside, the coyotes have gone quiet.
The swamp cooler hums.
The ceiling fan clicks.
I have four hundred and twelve units left to produce.
Less than a month on the deadline.
I have a town full of people who would have opinions about this that I’m in no way prepared to manage.
I lean into him and rest my head against the warm curve of his shoulder.
His body shifts to cradle me, adjusting its density until my head rests in a perfect hollow that fits like it was made for this exact configuration of skull and neck and tired, overthinking brain.
“Stay,” I murmur.
The gold threads pulse once, slow and deep.
“I’m here,” he says.
I close my eyes and feel the warmth of him settle around me like bathwater.
My breathing slows.
His pulse adjusts to match it, or maybe mine adjusts to match his. I can’t tell anymore, and the distinction seems less important than it didan hour ago.
“Oz.”
“Mm.”
“Tomorrow I have to pour four batches of lavender-honey before noon. And label three hundred units. And my shoulder is going to start up again the second I pick up the immersion blender.”
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, where a shadow from the window lays a crosshatch of moonlight.
“Can you help? With the production, I mean. Stirring, lifting, whatever. I’ll show you what to do.”
“Yes,” he says.
One word.
Simple and unhesitating, the way he saidhelloin the studio, the way he saidtake your timeas I was struggling to process his existence.
Like the answer existed before the question.
