“So. Books. Hiking. Exploring ancient tunnels.”
I tilted my head.
“You’ve basically been training for the apocalypse your whole life.”
It caught me off guard—the sound of it too ordinary for where we were, too easy.
Her gaze drifted away for a second. “I’d never thought of it like that.”
“You’re built for this, Libby.”
She shook her head, the smile fading but not disappearing entirely.
“I don’t feel—” she stopped. Corrected herself. “It doesn’t seem that way from where I’m sitting.”
“It should.”
She glanced up at me.
“Why?”
I held her gaze.
“You’re still here,” I said, letting the words hang in the air, my gaze steady on hers. “Still thinking. Still moving. Still keeping your kid alive and your head above water while everyone else already went under.”
I meant them.
She went quiet, not uncomfortably, but as if she didn’t know what to do with the words—where to put them, how to hold them. Like no one had said anything like that to her in a long time.
Maybe ever.
She settled back against me, her hand finding my chest again, directly over my heartbeat.
“Your turn,” she murmured.
I exhaled through my nose.
“Not nearly as interesting, honestly.”
“I doubt that.”
“Lot fewer books. Lot more bad decisions.”
She smiled against my shirt; I could feel the curve of it through the fabric.
“I don’t believe that either.”
I shook my head.
“Careful,” I said. “You’re starting to sound like you’ve got too much faith in me.”
“Maybe I do,” she said softly.
I didn’t respond right away.
I just pulled her tighter against me, pressed my chin to the top of her head, and breathed her in.
Her fingers curled into my shirt and held on.
