Page 62 of Dozer

He shifts farther onto the cot, leaving just enough room for me to lie beside him without either of us falling onto the floor. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but then I lie down, because the cold is real and so is the exhaustion, and I am not proud enough to freeze to death just to preserve some imaginary boundary neither of us has actually been respecting for days.

A few minutes later, through nothing more complicated than physics, we're back-to-back beneath the mildewed blankets. His warmth settles against me almost immediately. I go still and not because I'm afraid, but because I'm suddenly keenly aware of everything. The solid line of his shoulder blades against mine, the way his chest is slowly rising and falling, and the fact that his body is warm enough that my own starts relaxing.

Neither of us says anything for a while. The cabin holds its own kind of silence, different from the hospital's. This one isn’t eerie, no ghosts lurking in these walls. I feel like we’ve run out of things to be afraid of right now, there’s zero way we could have been tracked to this location, Dozer made sure of that as we moved. We have nothing left to do but exist next to each other.

I close my eyes. Then open them again, because apparently my body has decided sleep is optional and that my brain needs to run a marathon instead of resting.

"We lost today," I say eventually, quiet, more to the dark than to him.

"We didn't lose."

"Feels like we did. I mean the rental car isn’t a big deal, I’m sure it’ll be tracked and recovered. Everything else is replaceable but still, how do we move forward without communication or money? I mean, let’s not forget that the biggest loss was my last clean shirt,” I joke.

I feel him shift slightly, a low sound that might be the beginning of a laugh he doesn't let all the way out. "We've still got the evidence case, that’s a win."

"That's one thing."

"We've still got each other."

My breath catches. He says it so simply. Like it's obvious. Like us is a fact rather than something I'm still trying to understand.

"Like you said, everything else is replaceable," he adds. “We have what matters.”

I stare at the darkness in front of me. "That's uncharacteristically philosophical of you."

"Cold cabin. Bad day. Makes a man philosophical."

I smile into the dark, where he can't see it. Although, at this point, I'm beginning to suspect he can feel things I don't say. Maybe the dangerous part isn’t the people hunting us, maybe it’s how easily I've started letting my walls down and letting him see me completely.

"Can I tell you something?" I ask.

"Go ahead."

"And you don't have to say anything back. You can just listen, because I think I need to say it out loud to someone, and you're the only someone currently available."

"I'll listen."

There is something about those two words that makes my throat tighten. Not, I'll fix it. Not, I understand. Just, I'll listen.

So, I tell him. "I've spent most of my life being the person who handles things alone. Not because I don't trust people. Because trusting people to catch me if I fall has gone badly enough times that it stopped seeming worth the risk." I swallow, staring at nothing. "And somewhere in the last however many days, running through motels and train yards and burning safe houses, I stopped doing that. With you."

His breathing changes against my back, barely perceptible.

"I don't know when it happened exactly. I just noticed tonight, standing in those woods with nothing left but a case and your hand on my shoulder, that I wasn't scared the way I should have been. Not because the danger wasn't real. Because I wasn't facing it alone anymore." I pause. The next part feels harder. "And some part of me that's been braced for years finally let go and trusted again."

He is quiet for a long time. Long enough that I wonder if I said too much. Then his hand moves and his fingers find mine. He touches the side of my hand with two fingers, giving me every opportunity to move away.

I don't. Instead, I turn my hand beneath his until our palms meet. His fingers close around mine.

"I don't let people in," he says, voice rougher than I've heard it yet. "Haven't, in longer than I want to think about. Easier that way. Fewer things to lose." His thumb moves once across my knuckles. "You made that harder to hold onto than anyone has in years."

I swallow. "Is that a bad thing?"

"I don't know yet." Honest. His hand tightens around mine. "I'm finding out I don't mind not knowing."

I close my eyes. For the first time since the safe house came apart around us, I feel something that isn't fear. I feel safe. Not the loud, obvious kind of safe that comes from locked doors and full magazines. The quiet kind. The kind that feels like another person's hand around yours in the dark. The kind that doesn't ask for anything except that you stay.

"Dozer?"