6. Amanda #2
His body spilled onto the rocks, collapsing against me, coughing up half the river.
My arms were still locked around him, frozen, shaking, holding too tight.
His weight on me felt oppressive, the contracting and expanding of his chest as he coughed, feeling larger than life.
I just held on to him. Not ready to let go.
Not yet.
It took time we didn’t have to make our way back to the cabin, Eric stumbling beside me, his arms draped over my shoulders, steps uneven, breath coming in sharp gasps. He wasn’t shivering anymore. His body was past that point—too cold to shake.
The house was silent as we stepped into the cabin our families have always shared, the scent of old wood, the faintest trace of coffee left over from hours ago.
The warmth from finally being indoors helped, but it wasn't enough. Anger, fear and confusion twisted together so tightly I didn’t know which would come out first.
“Do you have any idea how stupid that was?” I hissed, my voice sharp but quiet. Anger won.
He blinked at me, slow and unfocused, trying to wade through molasses just to process what I was saying. His hair was dripping, the ends already starting to stiffen from the cold.
“Amanda—”
“No.” I cut him off, pulling him up the stairs before he could trip.
Eric’s boots squeaked against the floor as I hauled him toward the hall.
His weight sagged against me more than I wanted to acknowledge.
My chest heaved with the effort of keeping him upright.
He was barely walking on his own, and I could feel the tremor in his muscles starting, the delayed response of his body realizing just how deep the cold had settled in.
“Keep it together for five more minutes,” I whispered. Fear was slowly dominating my mood.
He let out a hoarse, delirious laugh. “B—bossy.”
“Yeah, well, it’s worked out great for me, as you know.”
His fingers tighten briefly over my shoulder, either a response to my comment or a spasm. I shove his bedroom door open. The room was dark and smelled of Eric and sage from that softener he apparently still used. I kicked the door shut behind us and turned on the lamp.
Seeing Eric pale to the point of ghostly made me more anxious.
A thin layer of frost clung to his skin, a subtle, unnatural blue tinge around his lips.
Checking his hands, his fingers carried a darker shade of it.
Cupping his cheeks and neck, his pulse was there—dangerously slow for the trek back from the woods.
His warm amber eyes lacked the quiet intensity that was Eric at his core, and even if he was looking at me, he couldn’t see me.
Eric sat on the edge of a chair, his head dropping back, eyes closed. If he fell asleep like this, he’d never warm up. He was soaked through, his clothes clinging to his skin and feeling colder by the second.
I grabbed his shoulders, a rush of water dripping from squeezing the fabric, and pulled until he was standing again. “You need to get warm.”
He hummed in acknowledgment.
I exhaled sharply. “Get naked.”
That lifted some of the veil of sluggishness coating his gaze, but still, he did nothing. Just stared at me plainly.
“Fine. If you’re not gonna do it, I will.”
Eric stood still while I took off his coat and sweater.
As I slipped my finger under his soaked green T-shirt, my knuckles grazed against his stomach.
I didn’t stop, lifting it over his stomach, and chest. He shifted enough so he’d help me get it past his shoulders and head.
Dropping with a heavy thud on the wooden floor, I did the same with his thermal undershirt.
Eric flinched when I brushed against his low stomach.
He gasped when I skimmed his navel, hissed when I made contact with his chest. His nipples matched his lips, the shape of his sternum protruding as much as his ribs did.
The sight of him like this definitely made anger pull back.
Until I made sense of the ink over his heart.
Stretching across his left pec was a tattoo with symbols I recognized instantly: the looping pattern of four intertwined circles of the traditional Celtic knot woven into the double infinity of a Hercules’ binding.
His heritage and mine—his Irish, my Italian—bound together in ink.
Framing it, an A on one side and an E on the other.
Beneath his initial, Morire di nostalgia per qualcosa che non vivrai mai, the Italian phrase for dying of longing for something you’ll never live.
I stared until the lines blurred. My throat tightened, and my heart shriveled between my ribs. He had carved what we could’ve been into his skin, even when he was the reason we couldn’t have it.
Shaking, eager for anything else to focus on, I undid his belt.
His eyes were on me as I pulled his pants down, the back of my hands brushing his thighs.
He held onto my shoulders when he stepped out of them to keep himself steady.
His jeans had been discarded, heavy and useless, joining the pile of wet clothes.
I dropped my gaze to his boxers. “Can you do that?”
He nodded, and tightened his hold on my shoulders, movements clumsy and languid.
“Get in the bed, under the covers,” I told him as I hovered over him, ensuring he’d be able to do it.
He wasn’t shivering yet. I needed his body to fight off the cold that had seeped through.
I took off my own coat. Eric had his back touching the wall, his stare following my movements, still unfocused yet aware now.
I lifted off my own hoodie and thermal shirt.
As I slid my skirt and leggings down my thighs, Eric finally registered what was going on.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re too cold. You need skin to skin.” I faced him in nothing but underwear.
He was completely alert now, his eyes glued to every inch of me. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll be okay.”
“I’m getting there with you, or I’ll tell your mom about tonight.”
His eyes jerked up to mine and he gave a shivering nod.
I turned off the lamp and lifted the cover, sliding under them to settle next to him. Eric shifted away, putting distance between us. I reached behind my back, unclipping my bra, and tossed it.
“Come closer.”
He didn’t move, so I shifted closer until my breasts pressed against his trembling chest. The instant our skin met, goose bumps rippled down my torso.
I hooked my leg over his hip, the press of my thigh and the curve of my shin warming his leg.
I snaked my arms to cradle his back, my fingers finding the back of his head almost without thought.
I nestled my face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him—sage and eucalyptus—making me dizzy, while his cheek rested lightly on my head.
His breath brushed my temple, uneven and alive.
We stayed like that, both of us shivering, the warmth between us slowly gathering, steady as a pulse.
“Amanda—”
“We don’t have to talk.”
“I want to.”
“I don’t want to talk about that night.” I let the silence settle between us. “Do you want to talk about tonight?”
I expected that to stop him, but he nodded instead. His vulnerability thickened around us, suffocating.
“I waited for your texts, and voice notes. I needed to know you were okay.”