102 - A Message Made From Bones

4

"What is it?"

"Not sure yet," Jay says quietly as he surveys our surroundings—checking to see who else might be listening. His sister is whispering with their mother in the kitchen, and Oz must have followed everyone else outside. And I notice the air feels lighter, more breathable, without Sineya's bones or Buffy poking at the Whitlocks—or Faith poking Buffy.

I push off the wall to lean in close. "Tell me what you know." Though my voice is equally low, my tone is far from asking.

Jay inclines his head toward his room. My knee wobbles on my first step, but he holds onto me almost instinctively, wrapping an arm around my waist.

A grunt escapes me as his fingers dig into a sore rib, prompting him to quickly readjust his hold. I try to push him away, hating the feeling of not being able to hold myself up. Like I'm helpless. It has been far from my first time battling a mob of vampires and receiving a magickal beatdown by a witch on the same night; I've taken care of myself all those times before.

"You need more rest." Jay's breath tickles the shell of my ear as he pulls me in to support my weight, and I find it almost too easy to let him, taking in the hint of citrus that wafts off him.

It is a slow, tender walk back to his bed, even if I feel like my injuries aren't bad enough to hinder my speed. Or perhaps his room and bed feel farther away when the space between us is so... nonexistent. So personal.

I'm keenly aware of his muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he guides me; the heat of his body nearly burning through my clothes, encompassing my side, and when he pulls away, the coldness of the room, the home, slams into me. One hand lifts the sheets while his other remains on my back as support as I slide under the covers, his touch lighting a soothing fire to combat the sharp pains lancing throughout my body with every movement.

When he's about to pull away from the bed, I grab his wrist—I don't even consider what I'm going to do next, what I'm going to say. I just know he was trying to leave without explaining what that look was about earlier, and I'll be damned if I let him off that easy.

And part of me... part of me just doesn't want to be left alone. Part of me, despite hating being so vulnerable, wants him to be the one to keep me company. For some reason, things are quieter when he's around, like having a bubble erected around us, muting the rest of the world.

Without needing words, he reads the pleading look on my face and begins to lower himself into the nearby chair—but I tug him onto the bed with the last bit of energy I have. He seats himself in the curve of my waist, cupping my hand in his.

"Tell me what you know," I repeat, this time gentler—sleepier, if I'm being honest.

"Later." He wears that familiar expression again, like he's bursting with unspoken words waiting to spill out. But for now, all he does is gently caress the back of my hand with his thumb. It makes me even sleepier—and less inclined to argue.

"You still owe me a beer," I remind, my voice a slurred murmur. "Multiple beers."

Jay chuckles softly, dipping his chin. "When you're better, I'll take you out to my favorite pub."

"After my nap." My eyelids feel too heavy to continue holding open, and I eventually stop fighting to see him, focusing on the warmth of his hand on mine, the feel of his gentle touch, and letting the exhaustion sink its claws into me and carry me away.

† † †

I thought Jay would be beside me when I woke, but he isn't.

Curiosity beckons me out of his bed, and I venture into the hallway, expecting to find him around here somewhere. But instead of the door leading into the rest of his house or the blizzard, it opens to a familiar set of ascending stairs. Warm sunlight streams down, inviting me to explore what lies beyond. Each step I take is cautious and soft, mindful of the creaking wooden boards beneath my weight.