He gets a grip on the glass and pulls it out, and I talk faster to keep from focusing on it. “I like how they always turn their faces to look at the sun. They don’t just accept being in the shade.”
“Sounds about right,” he says.
“Huh?”
“You,” he says. “You turn toward the sun even when everything’s trying to drag you into the shade.”
If he knew anything about me, he wouldn’t be saying that. I’m a pro at wallowing in shade. But thinking he sees me like that, so differently than how I see myself, warms my face.
“You make me one, too,” Nico says.
“What?”
“You enter the room, and everything inside me wants to turn toward you,” he says.
I’m sure I’m blushing, and I hope it’s too dark in here for him to notice. The feeling blooming in my chest is too big for my ribcage, so I try my best to deflect: “I thought you said you feel nothing.”
“I didn’t for so long.” He pulls out another shard, gentle this time, like he’s terrified of hurting me more than necessary. “Then you joined the team.”
The confession hangs between us.
“And made you feel so much annoyance?” I ask.
“Among other things,” he says. “Exhaustion. Rage.”
I know he’s kidding, but I can feel the words building in the air, like we’re circling something neither of us is saying.
He pulls another shard from my heel, and a piercing jolt lances up my leg so fast I see stars. This one goes deeper than the others, and I can feel the exact moment the glass leaves my flesh.
Pain is information.
“You’re done,” he murmurs, applying pressure to staunch the blood. I train my mind on the pressure instead of on the pain as he wraps the remaining strips of my T-shirt around my feet. He ties off each bandage and looks up at me through the dark strands of hair falling across his forehead. In the red lighting, his eyes almost sparkle. “So, walk or scoot?”
I want to say walk. I want to be tough and capable and not a burden, but the adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright is starting to fade, and exhaustion crashes over me.
“Can we sit here for a second?” I ask. “Please?”
The speakers have been silent since the Game Master told us to move. He can’t have been possessing that cop’s body for long. There’s no way he can keep control long enough to watch us 24/7. Sitting here for a few seconds more feels safe.
Nico tilts his head, then slides his hand up my shin until it rests right below my uninjured knee, scooting closer to me. His fingers have stopped that trembling from before. His circulation must be coming back. The place where his leg pushes against mine feels impossibly warm compared to everything else.
“You asked me once about my tattoos,” he says. “Do you want me to tell you about them?”
I nod, grateful for the distraction.
He tugs his sleeve halfway up his forearm, angling so I can see the tattooed bones and the hard lines of muscle visible under his shaded skin. His veins bulge against his forearms. Part of me thinks maybe it’s weird to find veins this hot, but sue me. They are.
“I did this one because I wanted to understand what things look like underneath,” he says. “I needed the reminder that I’m only barely alive. That it wouldn’t take much for what’s under there to be exposed.”
I let out a weak laugh. “That’s morbid.”
“Welcome to my head.”
“I’m not one to judge.”
He unzips his leather jacket, pulls off his own layers, until he begins unzipping his jumpsuit, exposing his bare chest.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
