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In that moment, she seemed less like an intruder and more like a beacon, guiding him toward a life where pleasure wasn’t interred with the dead. His mind, mired in grief, struggled to rise above the surface, but her persistent care, the soft glide of her fingers across his skin, sparked something dormant within him. Once inside the cramped confines of the dingy bathroom, the air seemed to tighten around them. Cheyenne took the opportunity to slip away, desperate for distraction. Her hair was wet from the shower, rivulets of water cascading over her shoulders, soaking into her t-shirt. She was etched into every fiber of his being, a part of him forever. “We’re just going to get you cleaned up.”

She could feel the slump of his muscles, the way his body hinged on giving up, but she propped him up with a strength she didn’t often have cause to use.