No Way Down
When he comes into the room, she lifts her head. Her shoulders sunken, he can see her open mouth reflected in the slated glass. A grimace. She looks back at him, unblinking, mouthing the word:
Closer.
His joints lock. Jaw numb. Choking against the tension. They sway.
Her elbows fold into themselves like paper cranes, fragile and white. The sharp, clean crease of her spine. She's perched on the edge of the bed, unmoving, her hollow back turned on him. She is transparent, wanly pressing her legs against the glass. There is nothing to obstruct the sharp lines of her shoulder blades, the breakable fault that starts at the nape of her neck. Only the dark hair that falls away from her bun. The non-existent rise and fall of her ribcage makes him doubt if she's even there at all.
Exposed. Vulnerable. It would be easy enough to crush her. But now is not the time. Instead, he follows her eyes, still starkly trained on the window. Moves close enough not to touch her. His lips hover over her shoulder, and she lifts her chin, dauntless. They do not look away from their reflection, from each other. His breath spills hot down the back of her neck, strums against her naked collarbone, and her chest tightens with one last inhale. They don't touch.
She exhales. Tomorrow. And outside the Capitol rages.