Burn Me Like the Sun

“127 Hours.”

I pulled the DVD from the storage box, fanning it in the air.

“That’s where you heard it from?” Louis asked, reaching over my shoulder and plucking the case from my hand.

I nodded and sat back, leaning against the foot of my sofa just next to his legs. “I told you I could find it if I took a gander at my films.” I smiled complacently.

“Took you long enough, too,” he added, pointing to the second cardboard storage box I’d dragged into the living room from my bedroom.

I tucked my hand behind my back and pinched Louis’s leg, earning a satisfying yelp from him as he nudged his foot away.

I’d started with looking through the DVDs I kept on the bookcase in my room, but after an hour of standing in the same spot and going over each movie in my head as I got a crick in my neck studying each spine, I decided I needed to take a look through the films I that I kept stored in the cardboard boxes in my closet, the ones that I never watched all that often but still liked enough to have actually purchased.

Ever since I took the tube home from Louis’s and Harry’s house on Sunday, much to Louis’s behest, I’d been trying to rack my brain to figure out where I’d heard the song that Louis played on the piano. It drove me mad to the point that when Fran suggested I just look it up on IMBD, I nearly tore her head off. I wanted to figure it out by myself. I didn’t want to rely on some website when I could find out on my own if I just thought about it hard enough.

“What was the song called, exactly?”

He turned the movie around in his hands, sneaking a glance at me from under his drooping bangs. “Nocturne in E-flat Major. Opus nine, number two.” He pressed his lips together and sighed, his eyes still scanning the DVD case distractedly. “It’s my absolute favorite song.”

“Ever?” I ventured, inexplicably impressed. If someone had asked me what my favorite film was, I’d go red in the face trying to answer and I still wouldn’t have the faintest idea. “Really?”

He looked down at me, and this time he didn’t shy away when I returned his steady gaze. Then the faintest, most infectious smile crept across his lips, gradually pulling the corners upwards until his eyes crinkled. I couldn’t help but smile back, and his expression grew impossibly brighter at the sight.

“So what did you need my help with tonight?” He handed back the movie, and I took it, sticking it back into the storage box. “And know that I’m not cheap, so I’ll be expecting payment in the form of some sort of food. You promised me, remember?”

I threw back my head, resting it on the couch cushion, and stared up at Louis as I crossed my arms. “How about sweets?”

He grinned down at me and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Now that… That sounds brilliant.”

I rang Louis the day after the debacle with a naked Harry Styles and breakfast tea just after my Digital Media lecture with the prickly Dr. Lassiter, who still hadn’t quite forgiven me for letting my mobile go off in the lecture hall. Louis answered after the first ring, quickly and somewhat smugly pointing out that it was the first time I’d ever called him first. I’d requested his help and that was all I divulged. All I had to offer him in return was food, and he was quick to agree, practically whining to me about how he hadn’t been properly fed since he and Harry finished off the last of his hairstylist’s hearty Eurosandwiches.

The only reason Louis was helping me out was because Fran was at work that night, scheduled on a rare weekday shift along with Valenti. Luckily, since our little tiff at the charity event, something had shifted between Val and me. It was barely a difference, so I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew we were definitely more comfortable together. We were getting on so well that I would’ve asked him to come over and help with my project for the night, but he was catering the same event as Fran.

Since I wasn’t so keen on entertaining my hairy and perpetually shirtless neighbor Cunningham for the evening, I only had one option in order to make my workload light, considering I still had some reading to do for my British life and culture module, along with some other coursework I was considering starting up early. If it meant less time spent typing up essays and reading another article about some weird media theory and more time catching up at the cinema on Two Quid Tuesdays, then I thought any paparazzi Louis might attract to my flat would be worth it.

Besides, it wasn’t like I wanted Louis to think I was using him to get to his oven, or his house, or his money, or anything else of his. I wasn’t. And there was no use relying on him for this one thing, because then I’d start to get used to it, like some sort of crutch. I’d rather figure a way around my obstacles and take care of myself. I’d done well so far and I didn’t need Louis to help me now. And anyway, I knew he’d never be there to help me out all the time, anyway – not that it was a guarantee he’d always want to.

There’s always a chance that someone will leave. I was just trying to stay ahead of the curve. It’s just easier to keep myself from getting disappointed when I see it coming. At least I have more time to brace myself for it or to cope, whichever helps me get over it quicker.

“I just need your help with some baking.” I pushed myself up on the couch and sat next to Louis, intertwining my fingers and setting my hands in my lap. Even though it was freezing in my flat, I could still feel the heat radiating off his body and drenching my side. “London Met-a’s having a superhero film marathon tomorrow night. I’ve been assigned on sweets duty.”

“Met-a?” Louis repeated dumbly, his voice coming out tight and raspy.

“My uni’s film club. Combination of London Met and meta tropes.” I waved my hand at him when he shot me another confused look, his brow furrowing tightly, and shook my head. “Stupid pun.”

“What do you do?” he ventured, leaning back into the stained settee.

I smiled to myself. “Watch movies. Eat a lot of crap food. Some of us compete in film trivia at the end of the year for gift cards. We visit the Cinema Museum sometimes, too.” I met Louis’s eyes and shrugged. “I’m not that good at the trivia thing, though. I’m a drag with film history. Not unless it has to do with Charlie Chaplin.”

“That’s… That’s the guy with the, erm…” Louis held his finger up to his upper lip and widened his eyes. He danced a little in his seat on the sofa, his fist set on his hip with his elbow cocked.

I laughed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“So, eh, what sweets were you gonna make?” He licked his lips and bounced his feet a little on the floor, grinning without hesitation.

“I mean, I’m going to try in the least,” I clarified, pushing myself up off the couch. I made my way to the kitchen, and I could hear Louis trail closely behind, our feet padding softly on the shag carpet. “My cooker’s been acting up, but I think it can handle some sugar cookies.”

“What, are you going to decorate them? Do you have some sort of special cutout or something? I mean, which superhero is it even for?” Louis asked breathlessly, taking a seat behind the island and crossing his arms on the countertop.

I reined in a smile and crouched down behind the counter. I pulled open a set of cupboard doors and brought out two jars of vanilla frosting and a couple of small bottles of red and blue food coloring.

“Superman.” I pushed them forward until they hit his elbows. “I don’t have any cookie cutters so I thought I could just make ‘em square and then cut them up when they pop out.” Louis was busy reading the labels as I spoke, the space between his eyebrows curled up delicately. “And then you can help me frost them.”

“Frost them?” His head shot up and he set down the bottle of red dye, looking like I had just asked him to take a bullet for his ex-girlfriend.

“What?”

“Do you really expect me to help with the decorating? I’ve never baked a thing in my life, let alone frosted anything. I’m…” He looked at me comically, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. “I’m gonna muck it up,” he warned, cocking one eyebrow.

“You know how to write, yeah?” He nodded and hummed once. “Then it won’t be that hard.”

But I was completely wrong. There wasn’t a single artistic bone in Louis’s body other than whatever drove him to sing. He started out by helping me dye the frosting, which wasn’t so bad, and I took the responsibility of scooping it into two plastic Ziploc freezer bags in order to pipe it cheaply. The sweets weren’t supposed to be too hard to make: after cutting up a square sugar cookie in half and then cutting off two of the corners, I was planning on outlining them with the blue frosting and then drawing a red S on top. I thought it was the easiest cookie decoration ever.

But Louis was horribly sloppy with the frosting, spilling it all over his hands and the cutting board I’d given him to use. So after he messed up a fourth cookie out of the two dozen I had planned to make for my club of six uni students, I finally took matters into my own hands. Literally.

“It’s all in the fingers,” I told him, walking up next to him. My shoulder just brushed his back, and I could feel him stiffen as we got squeezed together in the small space between the counter and the island. I looked over his shoulder, which wasn’t too hard as Louis only had a few inches on me at most, and watched as he tried but failed to outline a fifth cookie in blue, the frosting zigzagging across the sweet and onto the cutting board, which had similar, oddly-placed streaks of icing everywhere else.

“I told you I was gonna muck it up, babe.” He bit hard on his lip as he tightened his grip on the bag, his knuckles white. “You should start listening to me more often, starting off with the fact that Manchester United is gonna win League.”

“I don’t know about that,” I admitted, shrugging once. “Arsenal’s catching up.”

Louis stiffened even more, his hands stilling in front of him.

“Em. Not… Not that…”

I mentally smacked myself and racked my brain for something else to say. The awkwardness of my comment was starting to throw me off, and I could feel Louis tense up like stone in front of me. How I could forget that Vic’s family owned Arsenal – and that Vic cheated on him with their star striker no less – made me feel sickeningly guilty all of a sudden. I never gave much thought to my words before I spoke unless I was trying to backtrack after I said something idiotic, just like I was so desperately trying to do at the moment.

“Not that Chelsea won’t be there to smack them down on their arses,” I finally sputtered out, setting my palm on the island and leaning sideways as I looked up at Louis and scanned his face.

His eyes were glued on his hands and the tips of his ears were pink like a raspberry lollipop. He stretched out his fingers, the tendons under his skin straining as he took in a quiet breath through his nose. He let it out gruffly, then glanced at me from the corner of his eye, his face softening.

“Man City’s been brilliant as well,” he suggested, the corners of his mouth picking up once. “But I’m telling you, Man U’s gonna take it.”

I snorted. “They always bloody do.”

Louis appeared smug for a moment before I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Never mind that. You’re doing this completely wrong.” I pointed to his hands, which were choking the plastic bag like it was Vic’s neck. “You’re going to ruin all my sweets before the end of the night, you tosser.”

“I’m not trying to, you know,” he clumsily argued, his voice falling short. A little string of frosting came out of the corner of the piping bag, staining a nearby Pollocked cookie with an extra streak of blue.

I pulled a face, nudging my chin at the bits of dried frosting that clung all over his tray. “Wotcher, Lou. Keep getting it everywhere like that and I’ll be forced to cut a lock of your hair and sell it on eBay just so I can actually afford the cookies I promised.”

He glanced at me again, an amused smirk twisting his lips to the side.

“Shut up,” I chuckled, shaking my head. “Oi, and you’re still ruining my sweets!” I cried, smacking his elbow with the back of my hand as some frosting dripped out of the Ziploc bag and onto a previously untouched sugar cookie. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Before he could protest, I stepped right behind him. It was a tight squeeze between the sink and the island with the three of us – Louis, me, and that obnoxious bum of his – wedged in there all together.

“Try it again, but loosen up your hands. The frosting never did anything to you to warrant such a vise grip,” I scolded, reaching up and gently pushing his elbow forward.

He tried frosting the edge of the cookie again, but his hands shook unsteadily, the blue icing still coming out crooked and uneven.

“You’d think that since you earn millions as a bloody singer, this wouldn’t be as difficult as it is for you to sit still,” I mused.

“Visual art and music are entirely, completely different things, Blake,” he contended, his breathing jagged as he stared at his hands, which were still trembling faintly.

“Same side of the brain, genius,” I chided, ignoring the muted look he was shot me over his shoulder. “Steady your hands, alreet? Jesus, calm the fuck down.” I snorted softly, and urged him on again, my voice soft.

The second time I watched him attempt to outline the last untouched sugar cookie on his tray, he did even worse. Some of the frosting even flew off the lip of the cutting board and onto the counter.

I groaned. “No, no, no, no! You’re… Stop gripping it like you’re tossing off. Just…” I brought my arms around his waist and set my hands on his, gently pulling at his fingers. “Steady. Steady, that’s it,” I mumbled, guiding his hands around the cookie. “Don’t just concentrate on the frosting. Watch out for your hands.”

“It gets me all nervous when people watch me,” he admitted hesitantly. “It’s unsettling.”

“It’s a bloody wonder you ever go out in public, then,” I shot back quietly, still guiding his hands.

I could feel him breathe in front of me, his back almost flush against my chest. It was peculiar, because unlike his hands, which felt just a few degrees short of ice, the rest of his body was warm. It was especially odd because my flat had been bitter cold since the moment I woke up that morning to the sound of rain pounding against my window. It was commendable, even, as he only had on a white t-shirt and some jeans. I tried not to enjoy it too much even though it was hard since I had been freezing my arse off since my alarm went off. My Newcastle United jumper only helped so much.

“Bless it, the lines are finally straight. There. See?” I patted his hands twice and twisted out from behind him. “Not half bad. Just keep those hands nice and loose. Don’t lose all your focus on the frosting. It’s not rocket science or anything.”

It was a moment later when I was starting on the red icing when Louis spoke up again, his brow curling as he stared at the cookie he was carefully outlining in blue.

“Is there any reason your electric cooker makes that awful grinding noise?”

I shrugged and glanced at the stove as it wheezed, a second batch of cookies on the rack, and gave Louis a despondent look. “Our, em, landlord, he said that it’s something to do with the wiring. It still works perfectly alreet, though.” I screwed my mouth to the side as I kneaded the red frosting out of my makeshift piping bag, keeping my eyes on my hands. “Unfortunately, that also means that he won’t fix it up unless it actually breaks down on us.”

I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

“I bet I can fix it.”

I snorted, glancing up at Louis from under my floppy bangs. “Like hell you could.”

He eyed me challengingly, one eyebrow quirked as he stared me down, the hand stuck in his jeans dragging them down below the hem of his shirt. He set down his piping bag in a bowl and reached for the mug of water he’d had by his side all night, not for one second tearing his gaze from me.

“You’d probably end up shocking yourself,” I predicted rather coldly. I set the red icing back into my own bowl next to my elbow. “And where would that leave me? I’d be charged with the murder of a pop star, not to mention the subsequent deaths of tweenie girls everywhere. That’s not how you treat your mates, Louis.”

His expression snapped into a haughty grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and his eyebrows shot up once. “So you think we’re mates now, do you Blake?”

“And if you fuck it up down there, I’ll have to actually call a professional to come down and fix it, and I definitely don’t have the money to do it properly,” I said quickly, hoping he’d stop while he was ahead.

“Mates.” He chuckled lowly, then narrowed his gaze on me as I rolled my eyes. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?” he asked. He brought his mug to his lips, his infuriating grin not even fading but growing stronger by the second.

“Of course you’re forgiven. You were forgiven a long time ago,” I reminded him quietly, watching as him as he took his time drinking his water, his jeans sinking lower on his hips.

He watched me carefully, his eyes narrowing just the slightest. He set down his mug and smacked his lips, his fingers still loosely wrapped around the stem as he just stood there, taking me in.

“That’s not fair to you,” he admitted, all in a rush of breath, his shoulders slumping forward. “You should’ve had me work for it.”

I bit my lip and studied Louis as he wrinkled his nose delicately, his ears a muted pink. “Well, if you still feel that way…” I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest, feeling all of the sudden the slightest bit guilty. I glanced at my cooker, then looked back at Louis, who was already biting back a smile. “Besides, what the hell do you even know about electronics anyway?”

He smirked, giving me the most arrogant look I’d seen on him since the night he stood in my doorway when I first met him sober.

“Plenty, babe.”

It turned out that Louis was only partly lying. He had a cousin back in Doncaster that was an electrician, and during the summer when he was fourteen, Louis would sometimes go with him on his drives across town and join him in various sweltering bedrooms, in between insulated walls, and crouching between beams in strangers’ attics while he patched up wiring or worked installs. It was his mother’s idea of a way to both get him out of the house and to hopefully jumpstart his interest in some kind of secure profession, since by the time he was in year ten, he was already showing an eager love for performing, one that was starting to become voracious.

He told me all of this as he pulled the plastic frame off the dials at the front of the cooker, which he was only able to do by unscrewing the back with a dull Swiss Army knife that Fran’s father gave her before she moved to London from Bristol for university.

“You’re gonna fucking shock yourself and I’m just gonna sit here and laugh at you, you git,” I grumbled, my bum planted firmly on the stool on the other end of the kitchen as I watched Louis tuck the Swiss knife into his back pocket and push his floppy bangs back from his forehead.

He looked at me over his shoulder as he rolled up his right sleeve, revealing the another tattoo of a translucent heart placed above the stag that took up most of his triceps.

“You know what I just noticed? All your tattoos are just black. How come there’s no color on you?” I wondered aloud, my voice coming out tired and insipid. I couldn’t help it – I was getting antsy and maybe just a bit worried.

“There is!” he countered, looking offended. He twisted his arm and showed me the inside of his wrist, which was covered in smaller tattoos that looked like they were ripped from a packet of quid stickers from the children’s section at a bookstore. He pointed to a compass, one outlined in some sort of amber color, and wagged his finger at it. “See?”

“There’s no color on you,” I deadpanned, setting my chin in my palm as I grinned mockingly.

He scratched his ribs through his shirt and rolled his eyes dramatically, the corner of his mouth pulling up, and turned his attention back to my cooker. We’d left it to cool for the past thirty minutes after I pulled the second pan of sugar cookies out. I had him help me decorate another dozen until I finally felt comfortable enough with letting a millionaire near my cooker with wires exposed. It didn’t matter how many hours he had clocked behind an ohm meter (whatever that was), and it definitely didn’t matter that he had reached behind the fridge and unplugged everything. I was still ready to bite off my nails to the nub the second Louis wasn’t watching me what with that smirk on his face, like he was only gutting my stove just to see me squirm.

It shouldn’t have surprised me that about five seconds after I had that thought, Louis was sprawled about my kitchen floor on his back, clutching his arm to his chest as he groaned in pain, both from knocking his elbows on a couple of cupboards while trying to break his fall and from the spark that came from a broken, exposed wire that was connected to one of the knobs that turned on the burner.

But while trying to break his fall, Louis had somehow not only gotten a hold of just the single broken wire, but another handful of them, and I only glanced at the mess of red and blue and green and metal bits, broken in halves and poking out in random directions before I crouched down on my knees and helped him sit up on the kitchen floor.

“Now you’ve got some color on you,” I stated quietly, pointing to a large, red blotch on the inside of his left wrist. I touched the skin around it, pulling his hand from his lap as he winced. “Cheaper than getting a new tattoo, yeah?” I tried, smiling a little as Louis gripped his head and groaned a little.

“No need to tell the rest of the boys about this,” he muttered, glancing at me from over his shoulder.

“You kidding me? I’m texting Niall the second you step out of my building. You should be lucky I’m even giving you a head start to save face and come up with some dashing, heroic tale,” I joked, rounding it out with a tight, awkward laugh. But it came out more like a baby gurgling spit than a proper laugh, as my voice was cracked and dried from the shock of seeing Louis tumble to the ground mere feet in front of me. I was lucky enough he didn’t hit his head on the sharp corner of the island or any of the cupboard doorknobs on his way down. I couldn’t help it, I was worried about him.

“In all seriousness, you alreet?” I tried, touching his shoulder.

He pulled his hand away and leaned forward, pushing his head between his knees. His back rippled through his white t-shirt, and I was close enough that I could hear the bones in his spine pop.

“You can tell me you told me so,” he mumbled, lifting his head back from between his legs. He looked ridiculously guilty, a deep scowl warping his face and his brow pinched together in the middle. He tried crossing his arms over his legs, but he winced when his wrist made contact with the coarse fabric of his jeans. He let out a sharp breath between his teeth, giving me a sidelong glance. “Because obviously, you did.”

“Maybe after my guilt clears,” I said. “Let’s get you patched up first, though.”

But my guilt cleared just as quick as it came when I helped Louis stand up and caught a proper look at the mess of wires tangled together on the top of my electric cooker. It looked even worse than Darth Vader’s severed hand in Return of the Jedi, and the prop itself probably had more parts than ten of my ovens put together to begin with.

I may have been a little rough with Louis as I guided him by the shirtsleeve to the bathroom. But I was able to start calming down a little after I pointed him to the toilet seat and started rummaging through the cupboards under the sink. I could feel his eyes on me as I crouched down, but when I snuck a glance over my shoulder, he was staring at the tile as he rubbed his lips together, his cheeks brushed with pink.

“I think I might’ve broken some of the wires.”

“Try fucked up a good chunk of them,” I shot back, giving him a furtive glance.

“Seems like your guilt’s gone then,” he observed haughtily. He studied the burn he’d gotten on the inside of his wrist, which was now inflamed and bright red, and nearly as big as a Superman sugar cookie. “There’s no need to be cantankerous. I’ll… I’ll get someone to come by and fix up my mess, alright?”

I rounded on him, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in one hand and a box of Band-Aids in the other. “I can get by just fine without, thanks.”

Louis started, his jaw slack, then narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m sorry, what?”

“What?” I repeated challengingly, spinning back around and dumping the first aid stuff on the counter.

I crouched down again to find the tube of antibacterial ointment, and this time I could nearly feel Louis’s cream blue eyes burning beady little holes into the back of my head.

“I have a hotplate I used in my dorm my first year,” I explained quietly, snatching the store-brand ointment under an unopened packet of hair elastics. I stood up and tossed it on top of the pile, then turned around, leaning against the counter. “I’ll be fine until Fran and I can get someone to come and fix it. Landlord won’t cover this. And he’s far too greedy to fix it himself.”

“I’m sorry,” he finally gushed, his cheeks brighter than the burn on his wrist. “I’m so sorry that I ruined your cooker, babe.”

I shrugged, studying my nails so I didn’t have to get torn apart by the guilt that was already eating away at Louis. It was showing on his face, his lips pulled down and his eyes suddenly dark. I’d seen the same look already, plenty of times, both when he was pissed and when he was sober. I didn’t need to see it again. Not when a guilty Louis had the power to split me in half, with one part of me wanting to forgive him and the other wanting to sling a few punches and a string of expletives at him until he finally crawled away, ashamed and hurt. Seeing Louis torn up was one thing, but when it was coupled with guilt, it pulled me apart in the worst ways.

“‘S fine,” I told him, finding it in myself to chance a look at him. “Come over here, let’s get you washed up.”

He sat up straight, eyeing me with amused suspicion as he narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re not gonna drown me in your sink, are you? Because if my life’s gonna end in this flat, I’d rather save myself the humility and just get electrocuted.”

I fought feebly against the smile that tugged at my lips and pushed myself off the counter, reaching out for Louis’s arm. I took it with me, not minding the cringing man connected to the other end, and flicked on the faucet. I ran the cool water under his burn as he sucked in sharp breaths through his teeth, wincing the entire time. I dried his wrist off and brushed a tissue dabbed in alcohol over the burn. He whined, but I ignored his complaints and clicked my tongue at him instead, shaking my head as I hopped onto the counter and uncapped the sour burn ointment.

“Stop complaining, mate. I told you this would happen. Now be quiet. I can’t concentrate,” I said, glancing at him as I squeezed out a couple of small dollops on his skin. He winced, but bit it back, instead focusing on his hand in my lap. When I pulled out a Band-Aid, he gave me an apologetic look, his eyes flicking over my face. I ducked my head as I applied the bandage, then wiped off the cream that started to spread under the adhesive.

“It’s fine,” I said, glancing away and focusing on the drop of medicine that was leaking out of the corner. I leaned over and grabbed another tissue and wiped it away, smoothing the sticky Band-Aid back over his skin. “It’s just fine.”

“I… I still feel shitty ‘bout it.” He sighed, curling his fingers into a fist on my knee. “Just let me get someone over here. I promise I won’t—”

“Louis.” I gave him a hard look and he winced, and only then did I notice my grip on his arm was a bit tight. I apologized quietly, smoothing out the bandage again as I ducked my head. “I can take care of myself, alreet?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to argue, but before he could even make a sound, I stopped him by shaking my head, my eyes hard and focused on his burn.

“That wasn’t a question,” I advised brusquely.

I nudged his hand off my knee and jumped off the counter, busying myself with picking up wrappers and used tissue as Louis stood by, his hands shoved into his pockets as he watched me.

“Did you want to take some of the reject cookies home with you?” I offered as I washed my hands. “Fran can’t bother with sweets much since she had some cavity scares the last time she was at the dentist.”

“Neither can I,” he reminded me, smiling faintly. “At least, not for a while. But I know four blokes who wouldn’t mind.” He sighed as I circled around him, and followed me as I made my way to the doorway. “You… you’ll be okay?”

“Christ, Louis. Stop worrying that pretty little head of yours so much,” I chuckled, reaching around the doorway and shutting off the light as I glanced back into the bathroom one last time.

I couldn’t see his outline in the dark, but I could still hear him take a tentative step forward, his bare feet smacking against the tile. I could smell the burn ointment on him, mixed with the sour scent of sweat and what I could only assume was the ginger cologne he used. Then I heard him take another step, and I knew, without a doubt, that he couldn’t have been more than just a few inches away from me. I could hear his shallow breathing, and he was close enough that I could feel his breath flutter my hair. I knew he was there, but I couldn’t see him. Not quite.

“It’s just a bloody stove,” I reminded him, reaching out. My skin touched cloth, and I pinched the hem of his shirt between my fingers. His breathing stilled. “I’ll figure it out on my own.”