I'm not breathing.
Haven't been for at least thirty seconds. Maybe longer. Time has gone slippery again, the way it does when something impossible is happening and your brain can't quite process it.
Any second now, she's going to wake up. She's going to realize what she's doing—realize she's pressed against the side of a monster, her face inches from mine, her body curved toward me like I'm something safe—and she's going to recoil. Push away. Make some excuse about being disoriented, half-asleep, not thinking clearly.
That's what happens. That's what always happens.
Even my own twin, who loved me more than anyone in the world, who sat with me through surgeries and infections and the endless parade of doctors who couldn't quite hide their horror… even he struggled.
He never meant to hurt me. I know that. But the body doesn't lie. The body sees a threat and responds before the conscious mind can intervene.
Bells saw the photo. Every disgusting detail of my face, captured in surgical lighting, broadcast to the entire fucking world. She knows exactly what's underneath this mask. And still she's here, pressed against my side like it doesn't matter.
Which means she's either insane or she's going to wake up any second and remember.
I wait.
The rain keeps falling outside, drumming against the windows in that steady rhythm that usually drives me crazy but right now feels almost soothing. The city lights blur through the water on the glass, turning Seattle into something soft and abstract. Pretty, almost.
I don't move.
Bells makes a small sound in her sleep. Her fingers flex against my chest, tightening their grip on my shirt before relaxing again.
She doesn't pull away.
The logical part of my brain—the part that's been running damage control since I was sixteen years old—is screaming at me to disentangle myself. To slide out from under her hand, unlock these ridiculous handcuffs, put distance between us before she wakes up and realizes what she's done. Before she can rejectme consciously the way her body should have rejected me instinctively.
I don't move.
Can't, actually. Not because of the handcuffs. Those I could break if I really wanted to, fuzzy padding or not. But because moving would mean disturbing her, and disturbing her would mean watching her face when she realizes she's been cuddling up to a monster in her sleep.
I'm not ready for that.
So I stay perfectly still and watch her breathe.
Her white hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends where it's started to dry. The makeup that ran down her face earlier has been mostly wiped away, leaving her looking younger. Softer. Less like the sharp-tongued woman who's been systematically dismantling my walls for weeks and more like someone who's just... tired.
Someone who ran through a Seattle rainstorm to find me in a cemetery. Then handcuffed herself to me because she was worried I might do something stupid.
She was worried. Aboutme. After everything I've done to her—the blackmail, the hostility, the constant push and pull of our fucked-up dynamic—she was worried enough to chain herself to my wrist and refuse to let go.
She shifts slightly, her body seeking warmth. Her face turns toward me, and suddenly her breath is ghosting across my jaw, warm and even and completely unbothered by our proximity.
She's asleep. Really asleep, not the shallow dozing of someone who's trying to be polite about sharing space with someonethey'd rather not touch. Her breathing is slow and deep, her body completely relaxed, her expression peaceful in a way I've never seen from her when she's awake.
She looks like she's having good dreams.
Not nightmares, somehow.
The chain between our wrists jingles as she moves again, settling deeper into the pillows. Her grip on my shirt loosens slightly, her fingers going slack as sleep pulls her further under.
I wait for her to let go completely.
She doesn't.
And I let myself look at her in a way I haven't allowed myself before.
The curve of her cheekbone. The way her lashes brush her cheeks. The small scar near her hairline that I've never noticed before, pale and thin, like something healed a long time ago.