Page 145 of The Wild Card

“I missed you,” she breathes. “Even when you were right there, I missed you.”

“I know.” I prop myself up to look at her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair spread across my pillow. “I missed you too. Every single day.”

“Don’t do that again.” Her fingers trace my jaw. “The pushing away thing.”

“I won’t.”

“Even when it gets scary.”

“Even then.” I lift her hand, press a kiss to her palm. “I promise.”

She pulls me down again, and this time the kiss is slower. Deeper. The kind of kiss that feels like a conversation. Her hands slide under my shirt, palms flat against my back, and I shiver at the contact.

“Cold?” she whispers.

“Opposite.”

She smiles against my mouth. “Good.”

We stay like that—trading kisses, learning each other again, the air mattress squeaking beneath us every time one of us moves. At some point, her sweater comes off. My flannel disappears. We’re skin to skin from the waist up, and the feel of her pressed against me is almost too much.

“We should stop,” I manage. “They’ll be back soon.”

“I know.”

Neither of us moves.

“Five more minutes,” she says.

“Five more minutes,” I agree.

It turns into ten. Then twenty. Her head ends up on my chest, my arm wrapped around her, both of us breathing hard and staring at the sloped ceiling.

“Your air mattress sucks,” she says.

“I’m aware.”

“Next time we’re using an actual bed.”

Next time. The words settle into my chest, warm and bright.

“Deal.”

Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my stomach, and I feel something I haven’t felt in months.

Peace.

“Crew?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you didn’t go to Alaska.”

I pull her closer, press a kiss to the top of her head. “Me too.”

* * *

Foster and Sadie return shortly after. We’re back on opposite ends of the couch by then—presentable, if slightly rumpled. Emmie’s lips are swollen. My hair is a disaster. We’re not fooling anyone.