Page 4 of Hell and Halos

Now I can't stop clockin' it.

The sun comin' up. The sun goin' down. The exact quality of the light at noon versus three in the afternoon. The way it hits the badlands different in October than it did in July.

It's like everythin' that came before the massacre was nothing but walls.

And everythin' that came after was… space.

We go inside. The house is mostly quiet, just the soft clatter of someone in the kitchen puttin' things away, water runnin' somewhere below. It filters past the rooms like background noise that belongs here.

Savannah leads me upstairs without speakin'.

I set the suitcase down inside the bedroom door.

She turns around and looks at me.

I don't know what she sees exactly. But whatever it is, it breaks somethin' loose in her. Her hands come up and they find my face, both of 'em, palms against my jaw, thumbs brushin' my cheekbones. And then her mouth is on mine.

It starts soft. Not the desperate, hungry kind we do at the silo when we've been apart too long. This is somethin' else. Slower. Like she's tryin' to memorize somethin' she's afraid of losin'.

I let her have it for a second.

Then I can't.

My hands find her waist and I pull her in close, and the kiss changes when I do that—deepens, opens up, her fingers curlin' into my hair and her body pressin' into mine like she's tryin' to close every last inch of space between us.

I slide one hand up her spine, feel the warmth of her through the fabric, and she makes a small sound against my mouth that does unspeakable things to my ability to focus.

My other hand moves down. Finds the curve of her hip. Pulls.

She makes that sound again—the small one, low in her throat—when I press into her. And I feel it everywhere. My cock grinds against her through two layers of fabric and she tilts her hips forward to meet it, which is either the kindest or cruelest thing she's ever done to me, dependin' on how you're scorin'.

I want to stay here. I want to stay here so bad it's a physical thing, a pull in my chest and my gut simultaneously, like somethin' anchored in her is yankin' at everything inside me.

Her fingers tighten in my hair.

My hips press forward again and she exhales against my mouth. Not quite a moan, not quite a word. Then she goes soft. Yielding in a way that says yes without sayin' anything at all.

Which is exactly why I stop.

And breathe.

Then take one step back.

The cold air that fills the space between us feels like a verdict.

Savannah opens her eyes. Looks at me. Her lips are swollen, and her chest is movin' fast, and she looks exactly like somethin' I don't deserve and can't live without.

I reach up and move a piece of hair out of her face. Let my thumb drag slow across her cheekbone. Then I kiss her mouth. Gentle this time. And when I pull back I say, "Where's the nearest shotgun?"

I think she's surprised at the question. Not because I ask it, but because I was serious earlier when I said she's gonna sit her ass in the corner and watch the door with a shotgun in her lap.

"Hold down the fort," she says.

I nod. "That's right, baby. Hold it down, hold it together, just whatever you do, be here when I get back."

I can't tell if I'm jokin' or not and neither can she.

So we just… smile.