SEVEN #3
Their body seems to react to closeness before their brain can stop it.
When they climbed onto the bed, their pulse jumped.
When my fingers closed around their wrist, fear filled the room so quickly it damn near choked me.
When they stitched up my side, they held themselves rigidly, as if the mattress between us had grown teeth and would bite if they got too close.
And yet, they came closer anyway. They chose to do that. No one forced them, and that seems like a big deal I lock away in my brain. Because it matters. It matters in a way I don’t even understand or have a name for yet.
A few hours pass like that. Maybe more, actually.
Time becomes a little wonky in the dark, but I lie through it, listening to the rain as it finally softens and the Biters below fall quiet or finally drift away.
The room chills significantly until my fingers ache with the chill and my side throbs in tandem with my heartbeat.
And through it all, Stranger never actually fully sleeps.
They try, don’t get me wrong. They try twice.
The first time, their chin dips for less than ten seconds before their eyes snap open and sweep the room.
They go from the door, to the window, to me, to the floor, to the door again.
The second time they try lasts a little longer.
Maybe a minute, if I count it right. Their grip never loosens on their gun or knife, but I lie there watching them fight sleep the way other people would fight infection.
Eventually, Stranger looks over at me and quietly asks, “You awake?”
I keep my eyes closed. “Nope.”
“Liar.”
“You asked. Not my fault you didn’t like the answer,” I tease, keeping my voice low and measured.
“Your breathing gave you away,” they point out, as if they’re teaching me something while being simultaneously annoyed by my entire existence.
I snort, the sound way too loud in the otherwise silent room. “Apparently, my breathing is very suspicious to you.”
“It’s definitely loud,” they tell me.
“It’s not,” I counter, confident there’s no way...
“It’s loud to me,” they say lowly before I can actually finish my thought, and it makes me pause for a long moment because it doesn’t seem like an insult.
They mean it genuinely, their words laced with honesty, because their senses do seem sharp.
Almost too sharp, maybe. Or maybe surviving alone has simply made them that way.
Could very well be both, honestly. But I’ve found that with every answer comes more questions, and every question makes the weird pull in my chest tighten that little bit more.
“You should try to get some sleep,” I try, changing the subject before I’m berated for taking in oxygen at a decibel that offends their ears.
“I did,” is the response I receive, and I send them an unimpressed look through my eyelashes.
“No, you didn’t. You blinked for a long time,” I argue.
“It counts,” Stranger retorts quickly, and I open my mouth to argue some more when they say, “At least, it counts in my world.”
That little bit lands heavier than they probably meant for it to, and I let it linger without daring to touch it.
Stranger looks away first, and a few minutes later, they shift against the wall.
They pull their knees closer to their chest, and the gun stays planted in their lap while the knife remains in their hand.
Their cap tilts low, hiding their eyes, but I can sense and almost feel their awareness as if it were another person standing in the room with us.
“You should sleep,” they finally say.
“It’s my turn to be the lookout,” I tell them, though I don’t move from where I’m still lying on the bed.
“I didn’t ask you to,” they argue. Always arguing. I don’t even know why it amuses me like it does.
I nod, my hair brushing over the blanket under my head with a rustle of fabric. “I’m well aware.”
“Then stop,” they demand slowly.
My nod turns into a shake of my head, the refusal slipping off my tongue with nothing to stop it. “No.”
Stranger’s eyes lift and the room stills around us.
It’s the first time I’ve outright refused anything.
The first time no has left my mouth after a demand, and I fully expect the gun to raise quicker than I can shake up my brain cells.
What I don’t expect is for them to only stare at me, as though I’ve become a complex puzzle they absolutely despise.
I’ll take that over staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
Hell, they can hate me until the cows come home so long as I don’t receive a new hole in my head.
“You’re injured,” they point out quietly, as if it physically pains them to remind me of my stupidity.
“You’re exhausted,” I counter.
I’m on the receiving end of another stare as they say, “I can handle being exhausted. This isn’t my first rodeo, and it won’t be my last.”
“And I can handle sitting awake. This isn’t my first injury, and it won’t be my last,” I retort, softening the words so they know it’s a joke. Kind of. I hope.
Instead of a laugh, or a lip twitch, or even one of those nose breaths that display someone’s amusement, I receive a lifted eyebrow and a smart-ass reminder. “You almost fell off a roof.”
“Key word being almost. Anyway, you pulled me up,” I plead toward my case, not sure why I’m fighting it so hard to begin with. After all, I really could do with more sleep, but there’s something gnashing at me at the thought of Stranger spending the entire time awake and alert.
They sigh as if their whole existence has been inconvenienced. “I’m regretting it now. Should have left the Zeds to pick you apart.”
“No, you’re not,” I blurt, and I feel the mistake in the room with me as if I’ve just conjured a spirit. I know the moment the words leave my mouth that I should have kept them bottled.
Stranger’s entire expression dies, closing off anything and everything, even if most of it was already hidden.
Their body goes still in that horrible, trapped way again, and not even from my touch this time.
Apparently, me seeing them a little too clearly sets off the awful stillness, and I soften my voice as I offer a sincere apology. “Sorry.”
They look away, and for a long time, I think that’s the end of it. Then, surprising the shit out of me, Stranger mutters, “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
The air that was trapped in my lungs finally escapes me in a long, steadying exhale, and I breathe, “I’ll do my best to be funnier.”
“Don’t,” they argue. “That sounds worse.”
A smile suddenly tugs at my mouth, and Stranger catches it instantly, even from across the room in their little corner. Because of course they do. I shouldn’t have expected anything less.
“Stop doing that,” they demand, keeping their voice low and controlled.
“What? What am I doing?” I ask innocently.
“Looking pleased with yourself,” they answer, unimpressed.
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not plea—”
Stranger interrupts before I can finish my sentence, jerking their head at me. “Your face tells another story.”
Pulling a face, I mutter, “I’ll talk to it.”
“Make sure to use stern words,” they say.
The smile finally escapes, spreading fully, but small enough not to count as completely reckless.
Stranger watches for a beat too long before finally looking away, dropping their gaze, and I realize I caught another moment where their body is reacting to closeness, warmth, and something almost completely harmless before their mind slams the door shut and locks and bolts it.
I don’t know what the hell happened to them, and I know better than to ask, but I still wonder, not for the first time, what could have possibly turned Stranger into this person.
The night keeps moving after that. At some point, Stranger dozes again.
Not deeply or safely. Their head tips toward the wall, bandana still in place, cap pulled down low over their face and shadowing it in darkness, fingers still curled around the handle of their knife.
The other hand now rests against their backpack strap as though they’re afraid someone might steal their whole life away while they sleep.
It’s only then I take proper watch, my eyes darting in sequence. Door. Window. Floorboards. Rain. Stranger. Repeat.
Each time my gaze lands on Stranger, I tell myself it’s a part of keeping watch.
It’s not the entire truth, but still truthful enough that it doesn’t seem self-deceitful.
So I continue sneaking glances as a part of lookout duty.
Their sleeve rides up when they’re sleeping, exposing more of those pale patches of skin along their wrist. My eyes catch there and hold, eyeing their vitiligo closely.
It’s not a disease or a wound or anything that needs hiding, and yet they hide it with an urgency they use to hide their scent.
I wonder if it’s because every visible detail is another way to be remembered, and this person certainly doesn’t want to be remembered.
Which is honestly a downright shame, because I remember everything.
The exact angle of their wrist when they throw a knife.
The way they say Zeds as if that small word belongs only to them.
The way their voice grows rougher when they forget to force it low.
The fact that their right knee is hurting more than their left.
The black polish on their nails.
The sweetness under the bitter blockers.
The almost-laugh that repeats in my brain like a tease.
The way they released my bandage as soon as the work was done, as if touch itself possessed a timer and staying a second longer might actually ruin them.
My Alpha doesn’t understand why we’re staying across the room from them, but I do. And it’s the only reason I trust myself.