The truck lurches to a halt, jarring you just enough to knock your head against your window. You hiss and touch the offended area more out of reflex than actual pain, and that's when you notice that Chloe's hands are horribly limp and still on the steering wheel beside you.
You almost give yourself whiplash turning to look at her, your gut twisting sickly. It can't have found a way to take her from you. It can't, not after Arcadia. Whatever debt you incurred by saving her life has to be paid off by now.
She's turned towards her window, and though it is incredibly dark in the truck's cab, you can see her back rise and fall with each breath.
Relief hits you square in the chest, forcing out a wheezy exhale of her name. She doesn't speak, doesn't move. She probably didn't hear you. You're left with a sort of fuzziness coiled behind your sternum when the relief passes. She's alive. She's alive and here, with you.
And, you note with puzzlement after leaning forward to see whatever it is she's looking at, distracted by a field.
Odd.
It's a pretty field, that's undeniable. Silver light from the still-full moon spills over the tall grass and thistle, painting everything soft and bluish. A week ago, a century ago, you might have taken a picture. But that doesn't explain Chloe's enrapturement.
"Chloe," you start, brushing your fingers against the back of her her cold hand. "Why—"
She jerks away suddenly, throwing open her door and tumbling out. She almost slams it shut again, and you're frozen with words caught in your throat and your hand grasping empty air.
Fuzzy feeling gone.
You shrink back into your seat, hands balled into fists in your lap, with the distinct notion that this is your fault.
Her door opens again, and Chloe looks decidedly not upset, even a little eager, when she asks if you're coming or not.
You don't remember getting out, but suddenly you're at her side and she's holding your hand, cold fingers twined with yours as she tugs you out to the field.
"Chloe, what're we doing?" you ask, a bubble of laughter in your throat and grass rustling at your sides.
She looks over her shoulder at you, her grin bright and fierce and infectious. You grin back without meaning to. Then Chloe's running, pulling you along with her, how it's always been.
You don't mind; each stride sends a pleasant shock rippling through your bones, and the cool fall air slides into your burning lungs like a balm. It's freeing. It makes you feel new again, even with sweat gathering on your shoulders beneath your hoodie and grass trying to tangle your legs.
You could run forever.
Naturally, Chloe chooses that moment to trip.
Your shoulder jerks painfully, then you're on the ground, sliding, your shirt rucking up so little rocks and dead plant matter can score your back. It stings like hell and you've definitely got grass burn on your thigh, but you can't help your wheezing giggles because you're still holding her hand. Chloe starts laughing, too, loud and genuine, and you decide that's your favorite noise in the whole world.
She's still laughing some when she rolls toward you, skin ivory in the moonlight, the dark lines of her tattoo a sharp contrast. Her hair, falling across a blush high in her cheeks and the amused curve of her lips, captures light between the strands and glows.
You feel your grin soften as you take her in. She's beautiful. She's always beautiful, but especially like this, carefree and a bit dirty, close enough you can feel the warmth rolling off her and looking at you like you're everything. You know that even if you had your camera with you, you wouldn't take a picture of this. These moments are yours. Just yours.
Chloe reaches over with her free hand, cold fingers skimming across the bare skin of your belly. Her blush darkens and her hand stutters, then she pulls down your shirt and draws back.
"My hero," you murmur softly, squeezing her hand. She snorts and squeezes back.
"Please, girl. We both know who the hero here, is," Chloe teases lightly, her face still open and warm. You remember yesterday, the acceptance and fear there as she shoved her life into your hands, then the blank incomprehension when faced with Two Whales' scorched, toppled remains.
Yes, you know who the hero is here.
Her smile fades and she squeezes your hand again. "Hey, what's wrong?"
You bite your lip and taste ash. "...I'm sorry."
Chloe hardens and lets go of your hand. The loss stings. You deserve it.
Then you're crushed to her chest, her arms locked around you. You gasp and wriggle, but she holds you tighter and you go still.
"Don't," she hisses into your ear, her voice wavering. "Fucking don't, Max. I don't want to think about it." She's trembling against you. You press your hand into her side, trying for reassurance. "I can't think about it," Chloe corrects, drawing you closer still. Her voice breaks badly: "I can't. Not yet."
You rub her side, guilt gnawing at your insides. "Okay," you mutter into her collarbone. "Okay."
In the truck, she doesn't look at you again.