Page 35 of Immune

“I didn’t ask you to,” they argue. Always arguing. I don’t even know why it amuses me like it does.

I nod, my hair brushing over the blanket under my head with a rustle of fabric. “I’m well aware.”

“Then stop,” they demand slowly.

My nod turns into a shake of my head, the refusal slipping off my tongue with nothing to stop it. “No.”

Stranger’s eyes lift and the room stills around us. It’s the first time I’ve outright refused anything. The first time no has left my mouth after a demand, and I fully expect the gun to raise quicker than I can shake up my brain cells. What I don’t expect is for them to only stare at me, as though I’ve become a complex puzzle they absolutely despise. I’ll take that over staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. Hell, they can hate me until the cows come home so long as I don’t receive a new hole in my head.

“You’re injured,” they point out quietly, as if it physically pains them to remind me of my stupidity.

“You’re exhausted,” I counter.

I’m on the receiving end of another stare as they say, “I can handle being exhausted. This isn’t my first rodeo, and it won’t be my last.”

“And I can handle sitting awake. This isn’t my first injury, and it won’t be my last,” I retort, softening the words so they know it’s a joke. Kind of. I hope.

Instead of a laugh, or a lip twitch, or even one of those nose breaths that display someone’s amusement, I receive a lifted eyebrow and a smart-ass reminder. “You almost fell off a roof.”

“Key word being almost. Anyway, you pulled me up,” I plead toward my case, not sure why I’m fighting it so hard to begin with. After all, I really could do with more sleep, but there’s something gnashing at me at the thought of Stranger spending the entire time awake and alert.

They sigh as if their whole existence has been inconvenienced. “I’m regretting it now. Should have left the Zeds to pick you apart.”

“No, you’re not,” I blurt, and I feel the mistake in the room with me as if I’ve just conjured a spirit. I know the moment the words leave my mouth that I should have kept them bottled.

Stranger’s entire expression dies, closing off anything and everything, even if most of it was already hidden. Their body goes still in that horrible, trapped way again, and not even from my touch this time. Apparently, me seeing them a little too clearly sets off the awful stillness, and I soften my voice as I offer a sincere apology. “Sorry.”

They look away, and for a long time, I think that’s the end of it. Then, surprising the shit out of me, Stranger mutters, “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

The air that was trapped in my lungs finally escapes me in a long, steadying exhale, and I breathe, “I’ll do my best to be funnier.”

“Don’t,” they argue. “That sounds worse.”

A smile suddenly tugs at my mouth, and Stranger catches it instantly, even from across the room in their little corner. Because of course they do. I shouldn’t have expected anything less.

“Stop doing that,” they demand, keeping their voice low and controlled.

“What? What am I doing?” I ask innocently.

“Looking pleased with yourself,” they answer, unimpressed.

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not plea—”

Stranger interrupts before I can finish my sentence, jerking their head at me. “Your face tells another story.”

Pulling a face, I mutter, “I’ll talk to it.”

“Make sure to use stern words,” they say.

The smile finally escapes, spreading fully, but small enough not to count as completely reckless. Stranger watches for a beat too long before finally looking away, dropping their gaze, and I realize I caught another moment where their body is reacting to closeness, warmth, and something almost completelyharmless before their mind slams the door shut and locks and bolts it.

I don’t know what the hell happened to them, and I know better than to ask, but I still wonder, not for the first time, what could have possibly turned Stranger into this person.

The night keeps moving after that. At some point, Stranger dozes again. Not deeply or safely. Their head tips toward the wall, bandana still in place, cap pulled down low over their face and shadowing it in darkness, fingers still curled around the handle of their knife. The other hand now rests against their backpack strap as though they’re afraid someone might steal their whole life away while they sleep.

It’s only then I take proper watch, my eyes darting in sequence. Door. Window. Floorboards. Rain. Stranger. Repeat.

Each time my gaze lands on Stranger, I tell myself it’s a part of keeping watch. It’s not the entire truth, but still truthful enough that it doesn’t seem self-deceitful. So I continue sneaking glances as a part of lookout duty. Their sleeve rides up when they’re sleeping, exposing more of those pale patches of skin along their wrist. My eyes catch there and hold, eyeing their vitiligo closely. It’s not a disease or a wound or anything that needs hiding, and yet they hide it with an urgency they use to hide their scent. I wonder if it’s because every visible detail is another way to be remembered, and this person certainly doesn’t want to be remembered.