"You need a shower," I say softly into his skin, feeling the gritty layer of road dust and dried sweat clinging to his shirt. “Maybe two.”
"In a minute," Locke replies, his arms wrapping around my back, holding me so tightly I can barely draw a full, deep breath. “Right now, I just need this.”
I don't care that he’s cutting off my air in his iron grip. I need the pressure, I need the constant, heavy proof that he's whole, that he's back, and that the dark stretch of woods on Old County Road didn't claim him.
For the next hour, the penthouse falls into a slow, subdued rhythm of survival. Stitch finishes applying the heavy white bandages to Bishop's leg, securing the IV drip to a floor lamp post to keep the saline flowing into his vein.
Hammer finishes scrubbing the white marble in the
