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Then she mutters, “You make it sound like a bad idea.”

I smile. Finally. Not much, but it’s there. A spark. A crack in the ice.

“Look,” I say, propping myself up on one elbow so I can see her better, “whatever’s going on in your head right now, whatever guilt trip you’re putting yourself through for letting me bleed on you in a tree coffin, just know that I don’t expect anything. Not forgiveness. Not kindness. Definitely not brunch.”

That earns a flicker of something in her eyes, but she’s still staring straight ahead.

“And if you’re pissed off with yourself for not pushing me away sooner, good. Let it out. Yell at me. Bite me. I can take it.”

Nothing.

“But this thing you’re doing now? This stiff, quiet, politedistance? I hate it.” My voice drops. “Because at least when you were angry, you were still looking at me.”

That gets her. Barely. Her head turns just a fraction, her lashes lifting as she finally meets my gaze. And gods, it knocks the wind out of me. Not because she’s beautiful. I already knew that. But because she looks like she’s caught in a war I can’t see. Torn between wanting to let me in and wanting to vanish completely.

Her voice is rough when she finally answers. “You don’t get to want anything from me.”

I nod once. “I know.”

“And you don’t get to play noble just because I didn’t shove you off.”

“I’m not playing.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s worse.”

And there it is. That pull again. The heat between us curling tight under the dirt and sweat and rot, sharper now that we’ve stopped pretending there’s nothing real in it.

I let out a shaky breath. “Say the word, and I’ll crawl out of here and find a patch of poison ivy to sleep in.”

She studies me, eyes dark and unreadable. Then, slowly, she exhales.

“You’re annoying."

I smile, teeth and all. “I know.”

She closes her eyes like she’s trying to block me out completely. Not just the sight of me, but everything I’ve said. Everything I am. But she doesn’t shove me off either, and that’s a small enough mercy I’ll take it.

The second her lashes settle against her cheeks, I look.

There’s a smudge of dirt across her temple, dried blood at her collarbone, and a line between her brows that wasn’t there yesterday. She looks older like this. Not in a way that makes her any less stunning, just... worn. Used up. The kind of tired that sinks deep into your bones, not because of lack of sleep, but because of everything she’s holding in.

I lower my voice, softer than I meant to. “Try to sleep.”

She doesn’t open her eyes, but her mouth twists into a tired huff. “I’m not tired.”

“Right. And I’m not incredibly charming.”

“You’re not.”

I grin. “Slander. I saved your life twice today. I feel like I deserve at least one compliment and a foot rub.”

She groans. “You’re the worst bedtime companion I’ve ever had.”

“You don’t know that. I could be a fantastic cuddler.”

“I would rather snuggle with a live grenade.”

“Better conversationalist than me, probably.”