Page 28 of Glitter Rose
“It’s me,” I whisper. “Paris.”
His grip loosens but doesn’t release. “Paris?”
“Yeah.” I try for light, miss by a mile. “Bad dream?”
He lets go of my wrist, pushing himself upright. His eyes land on me, taking in my clothes, then shift to the backpack and katana by the door. “You went outside.”
No apology. No embarrassment.
“I—” The lie dies on my tongue. “Supply run.”
“Alone?” His voice sharpens.
“No, I took my invisible army.” I step back, rubbing my wrist. “Yes, alone.”
“What the fuck, Paris?” His jaw works, something dangerous flashing behind his eyes. “You shouldn’t have gone without me.”
“You were asleep. And injured.” I gesture at his ankle. “Besides, I’ve been doing this without your permission just fine. Got noodles, by the way. The good kind. You’re welcome.”
He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, muscles tensing beneath his t-shirt. “What if something had happened to you? I couldn’t even help—couldn’t even fucking know where—Fuck.”
Foolish warmth blooms in my chest at his words. “I can take care of myself.”
“Against zombies? Maybe. Against other survivors? The kind who’d do worse than kill you?”
“I—” Lie, Paris. Do it. You can do it. “Ran into some, actually. They didn’t see me.”
“You could have been?—”
“Killed? Raped? Eaten?” My voice comes out brittle. “Trust me, I’ve played that highlight reel in my head on repeat since day one.”
“And yet you still went out alone.”
“What choice do I have? Sit here and starve to death?” I march to my backpack, yanking it open and tossing the Batman comics onto the coffee table.
His eyes flick down, then back to me, something shifting in his expression.
“Brought you something to read,” I say.
He picks up the top comic, thumb brushing over the cover. “You risked your life for Batman?”
“Not for Batman. For—” I snap my mouth shut, heat crawling up my neck. ‘For you’ doesn’t seem like the right answer here.
He sets the comic down, eyes never leaving mine. “Who’s Poti?”
The abrupt subject change knocks me off-balance. “What?”
“Is it the pot? Creative name.”
I gather the Batman figurine from my pocket. My fingers close around it protectively. “That’s none of your business.”
“Paris—”
“No. You don’t get to have nightmares about someone named Sarah, then interrogate me about who I talk to.”
His face hardens instantly.
“Sometimes I talk to things.” I place the figurine on the shelf near the TV. “To myself. So what? It’s a stupid coping mechanism. You probably have healthier ones, right?” I glanceback at him. “Like the thrashing and screaming in your sleep?”
