Abbie woke slowly, unusually warm and confused by the dim light entering her bedroom window. Was it morning or dusk? If she rolled over and checked the clock she'd know. But she couldn't roll over becauseā¦.
Oh God, she remembered. Crane. She tried to shift without waking him, but in the night (or day?) he had rolled over and put his arm around her.
They'd come to her place after a night full of terror and the smell of gunpowder. She was too tired to drive him home, so she planned to let him sleep on her couch. But he was far too tall to fit. She offered him the bed, and, always the gentleman, he refused.
So they took turns in the shower and she found a threadbare pair of sweats that Luke had left behind. She usually slept in just a t-shirt, but she donned a pair of shorts. They climbed into the bed, each clinging to the edge of their assigned side, a good foot and a half of space between them.
But in the night, Crane had somehow moved without waking her. Now she tried to slip from under his protective arm.
His arm stiffened, and he held her firmly, making a sleepy noise of distress.
He thinks I'm Katrina, she thought, and waited a moment before trying to extricate herself again.
This time he put up no resistance. She slowly sat upright and looked over her shoulder to be sure she hadn't awakened him.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," he said, eyes wide open and with no trace of sleepiness. "I trust you slept well?"
