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    Summary

    Eventually, Wriothesley says, “I used to dream about dying.”

    Neuvillette’s breath stills.

    Wriothesley continues. “Just… you know. The kind of dreams where you’re falling, or running, or buried under something. And no one notices.”

    He doesn’t look away as he says it.

    “They stopped for a while,” he adds. “After I met you. After I—after we—” He shakes his head. “But last night it wasn’t me. It was you. And I couldn’t do anything.”

    “You reached for me,” Neuvillette says again, gently.

    Wriothesley gives him a look. “I know. You said that already.”

    “I’ll say it again if I must.”

    A beat.

    Then Wriothesley chuckles, rough and low and not quite healed. “You always this stubborn in the morning?”

    Or, Wriothesley reaches out, and this time, Neuvillette reaches back.

    Series
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