Pull You In (Rivers Brothers 3)

"Why only the women?"

"Because they thought the female body was the only one capable of holding onto the spirit of the dead body. But they would sometimes slip bits to their children, and then there were a lot of deaths, bringing in researchers who figured out what the problem was."

"Documentaries have never been my thing, but you're making them sound interesting."

"We can watch... oh, I guess not," I said, the excitement deflating.

"Maybe when we get back to Navesink Bank," he suggested.

There was an undeniable crushing sensation in my chest at those words. Because I knew how untrue they were.

When we got back to Navesink Bank, things would go back to normal. Which meant he would all but forget I existed. Sure, maybe he would go out of his way to say hello to me more, ask about my days, slip in a comment like "Hey, remember when we were trapped in a cabin together, and the power went out, and we had to huddle for warmth while protecting ourselves from cannibalistic mountain men?" but that was all it would be. There would be no shared meals, no watching documentaries together.

My heart—and my pride—ached at that realization, but I couldn't spare myself it. It would only make the fallout that much harder to process.

The rest of the day was pretty eventless. We made an easy dinner. We played a couple board games with the light of the oil lamp, since we'd found several bottles of oil upon another inspection of the house. Then we took turns getting ready for the night.

When I made it back into Rush's room, I found the fire already dancing happily, starting to spread its warmth through the chilly space.

Rush was sitting off the edge of the bed, flicking through his phone, hoping for some small bit of reception so he could get a text out somewhere.

The rational side of my brain reminded me that he was worried about tangible things. Like having enough gas to keep the generator going. Like food running low. Like something happening to one of us that would require medical intervention that we couldn't get to. That was why he was so desperate to get into contact with someone.

But the silly, irrational, insecure part of me couldn't help but wonder if he was sick of being cooped up with me already, if he was dying to get away from me.

"Hey, everything alright?" he asked, tossing his phone onto the nightstand, looking over at me.

"Yeah."

"You've been quiet."

"I'm always quiet." I didn't miss the sharpness in my voice. And, it seemed, neither did Rush.

His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist, stopping my attempt to get to the other side of the bed, pulling me instead in front of him, between his spread legs, his head angled up, brows raised.

"Wanna try that again?" he asked, lips twitching. "That wasn't even halfway believable."

"I'm tired," I told him, and the answer was two-fold. Yes, I was tired. In the physical sense. Even though my days, by in large, had been much less busy than back in my usual life. But also, in a soul-deep kind of way. I was just... tired. Tired of feeling like crap about myself, tired of second-guessing all my interactions, tired of feeling like crap.

Just freaking tired.

"That seems halfway believable," he relented, his thumb starting to trace across the sensitive inside of my wrist.

"I don't want to talk about it," I told him, gaze falling from his face.

This was the point where my ex would have started an argument with me, not believing I had a right to take some time to sort through my thoughts before I talked about them. He wanted to know what I was "pissy" about immediately. And if I didn't want to talk about it before I got a chance to think it through, the yelling would start.

"Alright," Rush said, nodding. "But if you do want to talk about it, I'm right here."

Him being right there was part of the problem, wasn't it?

Maybe it would be good to get back to Navesink Bank, away from this fantasy. Then I would stop calling his line at work. I would put some distance between the two of us, maybe move onto something healthier.

"I appreciate it," I told him, meaning it, waiting for his thumb to finish one last swipe before pulling my wrist away, and going around the bed.

I settled in on my side, facing away from him, telling myself it was the surefire way to ensure that I didn't end up plastered to him by the morning.

I underestimated my subconscious's desire to be as close to him as possible.

Because I woke up to a grumbling sound in my ear, making my eyes snap open, my brain scrambling to understand the origin, the reason for that noise.

It was then I felt the warmth on my back from the top of my head to my thigh, the arm casually draped over my hip.