I'm worried that we won't be enough.
I pick up the same electrolyte packet I picked up fifteen minutes ago and stand there holding it like it's going to tell me something.
“Bash.”
I turn.
Maya is propped up on one elbow in the nest, watching me through the bathroom doorway. Her hair is loose, her eyes are heavy with sleep, and the heavy blanket is wrapped around her shoulders. She's looking at me with the expression she gets when she's seen through something and has no interest in pretending otherwise.
“Hey,” I say. “Go back to sleep.”
“You've been in there for a while.”
“I'm just checking supplies.”
She looks at the electrolyte packet in my hand then she looks back at me. She doesn't say anything.
I set the packet down. “I was checking.”
“You already checked.”
“I checked again.”
She's silent for a moment. In the dim bathroom light, her eyes sparkle, with the last traces of sleep already fading away. She reads me too easily.
“You're scared about the heat,” she says.
I could redirect this. I'm good at redirecting things. Instead, I glance at the cooling packs on the shelf before looking back at her.
“I want to make sure we're prepared.”
“You've been prepared,” she says. “For days.” She adjusts the blanket around her shoulders. “Come back to bed.”
My eyes drift to the shelf again. The twelve electrolyte packets. The thermometer. The doctor's number taped inside the cabinet door.
“What if it hits harder than we’re expecting?” I ask. “What if the fever gets too high. What if you panic and you can’t—“
“Bash.” Her voice is low. “Come back to bed.”
Something about the way she says it stops me. Her voice isn’t frustrated, it’s understanding. Like she’s not asking me to stop worrying; she’s just asking me to stop being alone with my worries.
I stay where I am for another second.
“I feel safe here,” she says. Simple as that. Three words delivered in a sleep-rough voice, just the plain truth she’s decided to say out loud. Her green eyes hold mine across the dim room. “I mean that. All of this.” She gestures slightly, indicating the room, the house, maybe something larger than both. “We’re prepared enough. And I feel safe.”
The electrolyte packet is still sitting on the counter where I left it.
I leave it there.
When I step back into the room, I move carefully around the edges of the nest and lower myself onto the mattress as quietly as I can. Adrian hasn't moved. Elias's arm is still resting near the blanket edge, and his breathing remains deep and even.
I settle beneath the blankets, and the warmth of the room closes around me immediately. The layered scents are all there, all four of ours woven together now, and before I've fully adjusted my position, Maya moves. She crawls to my side of the bed.
Her forehead finds my shoulder, and one hand comes to rest loosely against my chest. Her body relaxes the second she touches me, settling with that same immediate ease I've felt every time before. Her breathing slows toward sleep almost immediately.
I bring my arm around her carefully. Her hair is soft against my chin.
Her vanilla-citrus scent is warm and close, and some of the anxiety I've been carrying finally settles. She chose to come back to this room. She chose to stay. Tonight she asked me to come back to bed instead of letting me stand alone in a bathroom counting things.
