"She is the best." I blinked, felt the old sting under my eyelids. "She let me be a mess, and never once made me feel guilty about it."
He was quiet for a long time, just breathing, then he whispered, "I don't always like Father, but he's given me a second chance. I respect him for that."
I wanted to ask more, but he seemed so tired. The exhaustion, the pain,the blood loss. It was catching up to him. His body slumped, and his eyes started to drift close again.
So I just sat there, watching him.
After a while, his breathing slowed even more.
I don't know how long I remained on the couch, but at some point I knew he'd fallen asleep.
Eventually, the urge to see him—really see him—overcame everything else. I leaned in, slow and careful, until my face was only inches from his.
With a shaking hand, I reached for his bandana, fingers brushing against the side of his neck.
He caught my wrist before I even touched it.
His grip was iron. Not painful, but final. Like a door slammed shut before a tornado.
I stared at him, caught in the act. His eyes were open, pupils sharp and dilated.
We froze there, me bent over him, one hand on the blanket, the other trapped in his. My breath hitched. His was shallow and even.
It should have been awkward.
It wasn't.
My skin tingled everywhere we touched.
"Sorry," I breathed. "I won't do it again."
His eyes didn't leave mine. He didn't let go.
For a moment, we just stared at each other as if this was an exchange of body heat, a recharge. Then I eased my hand away from his chest and moved it to the blanket, let his grip slacken around my wrist, and carefully pulled away from him and then slid from the couch.
The apartment was quiet, but my ears buzzed. So did my entire body.
30 seven
I woke to the sound of someone moving through the apartment.
At first, I didn't know where I was. There was only the coil of pain in my side and the disorientation. Then, as my eyes found the digital clock on the wall—red block numbers indicating 4:07 AM—I remembered the events that had led me here.
The blood, the couch, the patchwork of staples holding me together.
The city outside was blank and silent. I heard only the low hum of the fridge and light footsteps, occasionally interrupted by careful sounds of chopping and rustling.
Something smelled good.
I listened and looked at her silhouette, cautiously moving through the kitchen against the dim backdrop of the under-cabinet lighting.
She was trying to avoid waking me, which meant she didn't know I was already awake.
I flexed my fingers. My right hand was a bit sticky with the leftovers of dried blood. I should have felt worse, but I'd known worse for a long time.
I sat up slowly, head spinning, and waited for the dizziness to clear.
There was a shape at the edge of my vision.
