Page 123 of Runaways

"Oh, god!"

"You are going to kill me," he rasps. "Jesus Christ, Noah. Fuck…"

He slows, pumping into me for a minute more, before he comes inside me with a loud groan.

And then he releases my legs and collapses on top of me with his head on my chest and his dick still inside me. He always liked that—staying inside me for a really long time. I wonder if he still does.

I wrap my arms around him and stroke his hair, the room now quiet aside from our labored breath and the television playing in the background. My eyes roam over his tattooed skin until bold serif letters beneath a small butterfly like the one on my shoulder etched onto his deltoid catch my eye.

NJB.

Noah Josephine Barlowe. Those are my initials. That can't be a coincidence, right?

I blink back tears again, hold him tighter, and kiss the top of his head.

I'm not sure how long we stay like that, but it's long enough that I start getting cold again. And fucking nervous.

"…Tate?"

He sighs, slow and heavy, before propping himself up and placing a hand on my cheek. "Stay right here, okay? Don't move."

"Okay…"

"Promise you'll stay there?"

I nod. "I promise."

He stands, pulling up his sweats, and then grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed and covers me before disappearing into the bathroom. Wrapping up in the blanket, I lie there on the floor while the intro to another episode ofUnsolved Mysteriesplays on the television. I hear the water running and assume he must be taking a shower.

He returns maybe ten minutes later, still dirty and bloody.

"Okay," Tate says, walking toward me from the bathroom. "I'm going to pick you up."

"Tate, no," I say, clutching the blanket as I sit up. "You can't."

"Pfft, be serious," he says before leaning down, scooping me up, and carrying me to the bathroom. The tub is filled, the lights are off and two candles near the mirror are lit. Steam rises from the water and my still-cold body aches to sink into it.

And I'm still filthy. My hair is caked in dried mud, my fingernails are disgusting. I hold them out in front of me and…

"I lost one," I say, looking at the bloody nail bed on my left pinky.

"Oh…yeah. You didn't know?"

"My hands were numb. I guess I didn't feel it. I must have gotten it caught on a rock or something when I was…"When I was trying to claw my way out of the grave you left me in.

"It's not a big deal," Tate says. "It'll grow back. Get in the water; you'll feel better."

I drop the blanket and climb into the tub. My toes and feet are still cold enough that the water stings my skin on contact. I suck in air through my teeth as I sink into the water.

"Is it okay?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "I was just…so cold." I lean back, soaking my muddy hair, and watch the water turn to a grey, foggy color, like dirty dishwater.

Tate, never comfortable in silence, plays music from his phone again and sets it beside the sink.

It's Lana Del Rey.

"Scoot over," he says, dropping his pants.

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