A sting rips through my chest, making me wince. I open my heavy eyes, but it’s all a blur. A fuzzy hand pops into view, fingers pressing something white onto my wound. I groan, then tilt my chin down to see the gash. The thick shard of glass has already been removed, skin sealed up with raw stitches. It’s a grisly sight but better than I could have hoped for without proper hospital care.

“There, there,” a gentle voice coos. The tension in my body eases as I remember where I am. The shed. Our neighbor’s land.

“Tommy,” I murmur, my voice wrangled as I try to lift my head.

“Shh.” The hand guides me back down. I manage to turn, just enough to see the boy lying beside me. Tommy’s bare waist is wrapped in white cloth, his eyes closed, chest rising and falling in his deep sleep.

He’s okay.

We’re okay.

For now . . .

When I begin to stir, it takes me all of three seconds to remember I didn’t fall asleep alone. My eyes pop open, body stiff even as I slowly realize he’s not here. He can’t be. His warmth has completely evaporated, the naked chill from outside sweeping in through the cracked window and blowing lightly through my hair. I bolt upright in the bed. I can’t resist scanning the room, just in case I’m wrong. But of course, I’m not.

He’s gone.

Not a single shred of evidence proves he was ever here in the first place.

And yet, I feel . . . different.

When I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and stand, blood rushes to my head in a single, hard-hitting wave. I sway, pressing a hand to the mattress for stability. My heart, it doesn’t feel right. There are no solid and timed thumps. Instead it flutters, like the swift wings of a tiny hummingbird in my chest. I’m careful when I walk to the bathroom, trying to keep my body steady even as my mind sways.

Something is off.

I’m drained. Weak. I’ve never been on a boat before, but I imagine this is what seasickness feels like. Trying to balance on a ship that rocks beneath your feet.

I splash cold water on my face, my neck, then look up. My reflection tells me I look as horrible as I feel. Drained of color, skin clammy, eyes heavy-lidded, I look like a ghost. Ugh. I must be getting sick. I never get sick. Not since I was young, anyway.

A ringing sounds from the nightstand, prompting me to groan. Just the thought of walking back across the room in this condition makes me want to hurl. When the high-pitched noise doesn’t relent, I force my legs to move, one step at a time.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.” With my head spinning the way it is, it takes me a moment to place the male voice.

“Bobby?”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause, then his tone softens. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m—” I reach up to rub my temples as another wave of dizziness hits. I can’t suppress my moan. “I’ve been better. Wait—what time is it?”

“Ten to twelve.”

Holy crap. I haven’t slept in like this since the first week I’d arrived here. Of course, I’d also completely forgotten Bobby’s taking me to lunch today. At just the thought of food my stomach punishes me, instantly twisting. “Shit. Bobby . . .”

“What do you need?” He asks without hesitation, and it takes me by surprise. Now there’s a question I haven’t heard from him in a long time. “Tylenol? My mom says a heating pad on her back always helps. I can run down to the local—”

“What? Oh . . .” Right, my supposed cramps from last night. I’m going to hell for all my lies. And I know just the guy to drag me there. “No, it’s not that. Think I must have caught something. I probably just need to sleep it off.”

“Listen, I’m downstairs in the lobby—”

My groan cuts him off. “I’m so sorry, Bobby. I should’ve called—”

“Jesus, will you stop interruptin’ me for a second?” I hear the amusement in his voice and nod, even though he can’t see me. “Thank you. Now get your ass back in bed. I’m gonna pick up some things for you, ’kay? I’ll be up in about fifteen minutes.”

My legs feel like they’re about to give out. I plop onto the bed with a long sigh, phone still pressed to my ear. As wonderful as it sounds to be taken care of right now, having Bobby locked in my room with me is a bad idea for too many reasons to count. “No, you really don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine. Just give me a few hours to sleep and I’ll call you later to reschedule.”

A low, exasperated breath sounds from the other end of the phone, but Bobby’s tone is gentle when he speaks. “You’re sick, Lou, and I’m standin’ in your lobby with an hour to kill. It’s not a difficult choice, all right?”

I’m silent, my skin getting clammier by the second. My throat is parched, but the thought of getting up to grab a bottle of water is exhausting.

“Lou . . .” He’s even quieter now, a waver in his voice that says he’s desperate for me to understand. “How am I ever gonna make up for all my wrongs if you don’t let me in when it counts?”

I take in a long, deep breath. It reminds me of the night he took me to dinner, when he’d stated something similar. He might still feel things for me that I’ve lost for him, but he’s also just a guy trying to make things right and get his life together.

“Okay.” It comes out like a whisper, partially because I don’t know if it’s the right choice and partially because I’m too drained to manage anything else.

Bobby made good on his word, spending over half an hour at my bedside. A cool wet cloth on my forehead, a glass of fresh water to my lips, a thermometer in his hand, and the comforting scent of chicken noodle soup filling my nostrils. He even gives me a fever reducer when it’s time for him to leave.

Lifting the washcloth to touch the palm of his hand to my forehead, he mumbles, “Damn, I really don’t think I should leave you alone like this. If I didn’t have to get to the city—”

“Sick people stay home alone all the time.” I groan, not bothering to open my eyes.

“No, I know, just—” He lets out a low sigh. “Claire’s downstairs. I’ll fill her in before I leave, make sure she checks up on you.”

I grunt out a weak, “Thank you,” and feel his shadow loom over me as he stands, before cool lips softly touch my cheek. It’s comfortable, friendly, and I’m already drifting to sleep as the door clicks shut behind him.

I don’t know how long it’s been by the time I start stirring again, but I’m freaking freezing when I do. The covers aren’t serving their purpose. Chills run up and down my body like a million ants made of ice. I squeeze the comforter, curling into it seeking heat.

But I feel none.

Out of the corner of my eye, blurred and foggy, I think I see someone sitting in a chair beside me. Dark hair, dark eyes. I feel him, the tease of a hot breeze floating just out of reach. He’s warm, so warm. If I could just get a little closer. I reach toward him, but the second my skin leaves the shelter of blankets, another wave of shivers rolls through me, making me wince and pull back.

I just need to get closer, I tell myself as my eyes fade back into a cloud of darkness. His heat. His warmth. Just . . . a little . . . closer.

Mmm. I burrow my head into the pocket of warmth beside me. God, it feels good. The chills haven’t totally let go of me yet, and my mind is somewhere between weak and loopy, like I’ve been drugged. But the more I rub against the solid, soothing heat pressing into my side, the more relief I feel.

On one half of my body, anyway. I’m lying on the left side of my bed, flat on my stomach. My right arm, hip, and leg are directly touching the source of the heat. The opposite side of me has been left in the cold, prickly needles racing down my arm and leg. Ugh, it isn’t enough.

I need more. Yes, if I can just get a little more.

Keeping my eyes closed, I lift my right arm, wrapping it around the solid warmth and scooting myself closer.

Closer.

And closer. Until I’m more than halfway on top of it.

Finally. My stomach, chest, and hip make full contact as I drape my right thigh across it, capturing the penetrating warmth. The solid form shifts beneath me. A breath exhales, low and ragged, but it feels distant, hazy, and I think I might be imagining it.

It’s so solid, so hard. I nestle my head into it, relaxing every part of me. Mmm, this time the sound pours out of me as a moan. It’s like my body is sighing, finally tasting the relief it needed. Eyes still closed, my right hand starts to roam, idly teasing the warmth. Ah, so good. The tips of my fingers touch upon a thin layer of cloth. A barrier. I inwardly growl.

No, I need to be closer.

The heat, give me more.

I’m rough when I tug at the fabric, ruthlessly breaking the barrier away as I slide my hand beneath it, not stopping until my palm lies flat against the source.

Much better.

Hard lines ripple beneath my touch, flooding me with a deep warmth that settles into my stomach. What is that? I press my body closer, practically rubbing against it until I feel the solid mass beneath me stiffen.

For a second I almost freeze up at the strange movement, then resume blindly feeling around. Searching for clues. It’s smooth, hard, everywhere, slightly dipping and curving in spots like a sculpture. And then, is that . . . a line of hair? Um . . . My fingers wander lower, taking in a hard, V-like curve as they do.

Then lower—

A sharp intake of breath sounds from above my head, and large fingers clasp over my own. My hand is yanked out from beneath the fabric, then dropped like my skin could burn.

Oh, crap.

This time, I really do freeze. Every part of my body tightens, from my arms to my stomach to my thighs . . . the same thighs that are wrapped around his. This isn’t good. The tightening of my muscles has me clenching his and, well, our thighs aren’t the only body parts touching. We’re almost perfectly aligned. Too aligned. The shiver that sears through me now no longer has anything to do with my illness.

My arm is wrapped stiffly around his chest, rising and falling with the heavy pattern of his breathing. Oh my god, I don’t even want to know what’s going through his mind right now. He must have lain beside me to provide warmth, an innocent act of kindness, and here I am mauling him, sensations far from innocent pooling between my thighs.

Crap, crap, crap.

I need to move, right? I don’t know what to do. If I scurry away from him now, it’ll be obvious that I’ve woken. That I figured out what I’m doing, which will just make things way too uncomfortable between us from here on out. But if I remain in place, his warm breaths teasing my hair, the curves of my breasts pressed up against his hard chest, my open thighs gripping him in a way that sends delicious sparks of fire right there . . .

Yeah. I know what I need to do.

Without opening my eyes, I murmur a groggy groan, hoping it sounds like I’m just starting to stir, then lazily roll off him so I fall onto my back. Calm, steady breaths, Lou. Just like any ordinary sleeping person would do.

With our bodies still so close, I hear the distinct sound of him swallow. Feel the movement of his arm lifting, the sound of him running a hand through his hair as he lets out a long, uneven breath.

He doesn’t move from beside me, though, and I can’t decide if I want him to. Having him this close to me now, when I know what he feels like, the way my curves fit against his muscles . . . it’s torture in the most unexpected way. But my chills are already coming back, cold bursts of air tingling across my skin, and I don’t want to lose the single source of warmth I have.

I don’t know how long we lie like this, two electrical wavelengths attempting to keep the sparks of our currents from ever touching. Twice, I feel the bed shift beside me, hear it creak as though he’s about to distance himself. And twice, he curses under his breath and lies back down. I try to quiet the sounds of my shivers, try to will the chills away so he won’t feel obligated to stay. But my body won’t listen.

Eventually, who knows how long after, my heart regains a steady pace. My pulse quiets, muscles relax. The enticing lull of sleep pulls me into its soothing rhythm.

And the last lucid thought in my mind is that he, the unfeeling wall that is Death, stayed. He stayed beside me. Offered his warmth to soothe me, when he thought I wouldn’t know. Maybe he’s not the icy, stone-like being those haunting, steel eyes would have me believe after all. No. Maybe he’s the evergreen buried beneath them.