Page 41 of Vital Signs
"We're going to talk about the trans thing. Later. When we're not..." I gestured vaguely between us. "When we can think clearly."
"About the trans thing. I meant what I said. Doesn't change anything."
The words hit harder than I expected. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for basic decency."
"It's not always basic," I said quietly. "In my experience."
His hand found mine in the darkness. Squeezed. "Then your experience has been shit. But I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."
The fentanyl had settledinto a warm hum beneath my skin, making bad decisions feel brilliant. The break-in, the near-miss with security, Misha's mouth on mine… All of it had cranked my system into overdrive.
"You should stay here tonight," Misha said. "Too cold to walk back to camp. Wright might have people looking for us."
"I'm not a charity case."
"I know." Those dark eyes held mine. "But you helped me get those files. Least I can do is offer you somewhere warm to crash."
We both knew it was bullshit. This wasn't about the cold or Wright or practical safety measures. This was about what had started in that clinic hallway, what had exploded when he'd kissed me.
"Okay. Thanks."
"Come on." He climbed between the seats and into the back. "Let me show you what I've built."
The van's interior was impressive with its cedar paneling, hidden storage, and a tiny kitchen. His territory.
"Damn."
"Watch this." He moved to the bench seating, pulling up cushions to reveal the mechanism underneath.
He moved around some of the benches, transforming the back into a queen-sized bed.
I tugged at my collar. "You built all this yourself?"
"Rebuilt it from wreckage." He pulled water out of the mini-fridge. "Gave me something to focus on when the nightmares wouldn't quit."
I stepped closer. "You know a lot about managing withdrawal."
"Someone who's dead now taught me." He pushed water toward my mouth. "Drink."
I took the water. "This is a bad idea."
"I know." He leaned in until his lips almost brushed mine. "So stop me."
"We're not thinking clearly. The adrenaline, the drugs—"
"I'm thinking very clearly." His smile was wicked. "You're the one making excuses."
He was using the fact that I was high. That I was vulnerable. That every defense I normally kept in place had been dissolved by chemicals and desperation.
And he knew it. Wasn't even trying to hide it.
"You're trying to make me lose control," I said.
"Is it working?"
"You know it is."
