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“Shhh,” I say, gently maneuvering myself out from under him. I arrange him on the couch, his long form barely fitting.

I take one of his hands in mine, brushing a kiss along his dirt-covered knuckles. “Try to sleep,” I say. “I’ll be right here.”

Pestilence mumbles something—I don’t even knowhowhe’s making noise.

I shush him again, and he quiets, settling into something that, if not sleep, must be somewhat like it.

I make good on my promise, I stay by his side—leaving only to start a fire and dig up rags and water, which I use to wipe us down the best I can. Once I’m finished, I take his hand in mine, holding it closely to me.

As the hours tick by, I’m able to watch the slow but miraculous evolution of the horseman from something that ought to be dead to a beautiful sleeping man.

Looks like something straight out of a fairytale.

With a metallic groan, Pestilence’s hole-riddled breastplate bends back into place, the golden armor ever so slowly returning to its original, seamless surface. Just as wondrously, I watch his face rebuild itself, from sinew and bone to muscle and tendons and skin. Eventually, I even see the horseman’s long eyelashes sprout along his newly formed eyelid.

This is magic. This is faith. This is the barest glimpse of the leviathan that is God.

Even after his body has all but healed, Pestilence doesn’t wake. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes move back and forth.

What do horsemen dream about?

It makes me ache to think of him dreaming. He’s so much more human than I ever imagined him to be.

I had a hand in that—more than a hand if I’m being honest. He eats food because I gave him a taste for it, drinks beer because I offered it to him.

Makes love to me because I opened myself up to him.

Makes love.I worry my lower lip at the phrasing.

The hand I hold now tightens, scattering my thoughts. When I glance up, Pestilence’s eyes flutter open.

I sit up straighter, bringing our clasped hands to my lips.

A smile begins to bloom on his face, but then it’s wiped away, his brow creasing instead. “Are you okay?”

Those are his first words. Just when I thought this man couldn’t gut me anymore.

I pinch my lips together so the truth doesn’t leak out. Because no, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since Pestilence was shot off his horse. Even before then, I’m not sure how okay I was.

I’m having more than a little trouble dealing withlovinglikingthis horseman.

He begins to sit up, looking increasingly alarmed when he sees the blood on me. “Where are you hu—?”

“It’s not my blood, it’s yours. They …shot you.” I whisper this last part because emotion is chocking up my vocal cords. Already my stupid tear ducts are coming online; as I blink, a couple slip out. Now that Pestilence is awake, I’m having trouble staying strong.

He sits up, a frown on his face as he takes in my hazel eyes.

“Are you crying … for me?” he asks, his voice laced with disbelief.

I want to say something snarky. Instead I wipe my cheeks. “Maybe.”

Pestilence eyes me as though he can’t make sense of the sight. “You know I can’t be killed,” he says quietly.

“But you can be hurt.” And they hurt him so badly.

“That bothers you?” His voice gentles.

I gesture to my wet cheeks and red eyes. “Yes.”