Page 47 of Collateral Damage
She flushes, realizing her error too late. "Body heat is the most efficient way to prevent hypothermia." She tilts her head slightly. "Unless you have a better idea?"
A better idea?
For a moment, the only sound is the heavy, rhythmic thud of blood rushing in my ears.
One word is echoing in the silence, louder than the wind outside. Carnal. It’s a match dropped in a dry forest.
My pulse isn't just fast; it’s a warning I don’t intend to ignore.
Ava
For a second, the silence is so sharp I’m terrified he’s going to turn and walk back out into the storm—that he’d rather face the wind and the freezing metal of the chimney than stay in the room with me.
I reach out, my hand hovering in the empty air between us before I gesture toward my bedroom. My heart is a frantic, uneven wreck against my ribs, thudding so hard I’m sure he can see it through my shirt.
The invitation is right there, hanging between us like a confession.
"Hypothermia," I say, trying to imbue the word with clinical weight. "It’s practical. Medical. It’s what I’d tell any patient in this situation."
His eyes snap to mine. "Hypothermia," he repeats. His voice is stripped of its usual iron-clad composure. He pivots away, snapping into a familiar, rigid efficiency, his movements sharp and precise as he moves toward my bedroom.
"We stay fully clothed," he dictates, his back turned to me. "Layer the blankets—one under, the rest over. I’ll stay on top of the covers if you want."
"That defeats the purpose," I counter, my voice firmer than I feel. "We need direct contact for maximum heat transfer, Silas."
He freezes. The heavy wool blanket in his hands goes still, and the silence in the room suddenly feels physical.
"I mean—" I scramble, my cheeks burning. "Not—I just meant we can’t have barriers between..."
"I know what you meant," he cuts in.
I clear my throat, desperate to pull the conversation back into the realm of the rational. "Right. So. Layers under, layers over. Both under the same quilts."
He nods, avoiding my eyes as he meticulously constructs a nest on the bed. He lays the sleeping bag down first, then the wool throws. The bed, once a sanctuary, now looks impossibly small.
"You take the inside," he says. "Against the wall. I’ll take the outside."
"In case something happens," I state, the reality of our situation settling over me like a shroud.
"In case something happens," he confirms.
I climb onto the mattress, sliding against the cold wall. The springs groan as he sits on the edge, his back to me. He’s stalling.
When he finally lies down, he stays strictly on top of the covers, leaving a deliberate, painful six inches of air between us. It’s absurd. We’re both fully dressed, with layers of fabric insulating us. Nothing is going to happen.
"This isn't going to work," I whisper into the dark. "You're still too far away."
He lets out a long, ragged exhale. He shifts, closing the gap, and pulls the covers over us both. Suddenly, there’s only a sliver of space—two inches of air where every breath he takes feels like a brush against my skin.
"Better?" he asks, his voice barely audible.
"Slightly," I manage, though my teeth are starting to chatter.
The cold is relentless, seeping through the walls and through the blankets, stealing what little heat we’ve managed to pool. My body is a taut wire of nerves, hyper-aware of his presence.
"Ava. This isn’t working." His voice is a low vibration in the darkness. "Turn around. Back to me."
I hesitate, then roll onto my side, facing the wall. The bed shifts as he adjusts, pressing his chest solidly against my back, his arm sliding around my waist. His touch is as impersonal as he can force it to be, but it’s impossible to be impersonal when you’re sharing a heartbeat.
