"You survived," I said, and my voice was warm, forgiving, the voice of a man who understood. "That is what matters."
Her arms came up. Wrapped around my back. Held me. The hug was not the hug of a lover — not yet — but the hug of a woman who needed to hold something and was holding the nearest thing.
"Thank you for being there," I murmured against her hair. "For carrying me."
She trembled. Her grip tightened. Her internal voice was a tangle of gratitude and guilt and the physical awareness of my body against hers — the warmth, the weight, the pressure of my chest against her breasts, the hardness of my thighs against hers.
'He is warm. He is alive. He is — his body — against mine — I can feel — his—'
"Wait — are you awake?" Her voice was sharp, sudden, the voice of a woman who had just realized that the unconscious man she was holding was breathing too steadily, was too present, was too aware.
She tried to push me away. Her hands found my chest. Pushed.
