Two of those possibilities were definitely good reasons to go open the door. It was the middle one that had me worried.
The scratching came again.
I heaved myself up and crutched my way to the back door. I stopped on my side of it, and the scratching happened again, more urgent, accompanied by a familiar low grunting.
I opened the door, and an absolutelyfilthybadger-Elliot shuffled his way inside, dragging mud, leaves, and other forest detritus with him.
“You just clawed the shit out of the door,” I told him, and he looked back over one furry shoulder with a grunt and expression that clearly saidLike you give a fuck.
He wasn’t wrong.
I’d broughthim a couple changes of clothes, which I left on the bathroom counter while Elliot showered off the mud. I briefly contemplated cleaning up the floor, but decided that the logistics of trying to sweep or mop while on crutches was going to be too complicated. There was also part of me that rather enjoyed the idea of not cleaning up as an act of admittedly childish spite.
I was back in the kitchen when Elliot came out and found me, padding out of the bathroom barefoot, wearing a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a grey t-shirt that read ‘Carpenters love hard wood’ with a stylized plank below. Hart had given it to him at some point.
I was about to say something, but Elliot crossed the kitchen, grabbed my face, and kissed me, his tongue possessive and grip strong. My hands closed around his forearms, the warmth of his skin under my palms reassuring, grounding. I kissed him back, still a little desperate to hold onto him in the wake of the accident.
He let out a small, soft whimper, then pulled back just far enough to rest his forehead against mine.
“God, I love you,” he whispered, his breath brushing my lips.
“I love you, too,” I replied, just as quietly.
“Remind me how I lived for forty-one years without you?”
I laughed softly. “Going through one man after another?” I suggested.
“Ugh. Clearly, I can’t be left to fend for myself. I make terrible decisions.”
“Clearly,” I agreed, teasing him.
He let out a sigh. “Fuck, I missed you.”
I’d missed him, too. “I saw you less than twenty-four hours ago,” I pointed out, as much for my benefit as his. There were days I’d worked longer than that, and while he was definitely happy to see me after that, I didn’t get greeted with a kiss like the one he’d just given me.
“I know,” he replied, his voice almost wistful. “But I just kept thinking about how they tried to kill you…”
I didn’t point out that the one they’dactuallytried to kill was him. Because they’d thought it was me.
“I had Hart with me, remember?”
“I know,” he repeated. “But that stupid dickhead gets himself stabbed often enough that having him around is no guarantee that you aren’t going to end up bleeding.”
I grimaced. He wasn’t wrong, although I wasn’t really certain whether Hart or I was the greater liability in this partnership. “No guarantee that isn’t going to happen anyway,” I remarked, holding up my scraped palm from my tumble on the mountain.
Elliot took my wrist and turned his head to kiss the scabbed heel of my hand. “I’d rather you not, but if you’re going to end up bleeding, I suppose I’d rather it be hiking than because somebody attacked you.”
“Me, too,” I agreed.
He kissed my hand again, his lips gentle, like the brush of butterfly wings. “I wasn’t sure you’d let me,” he said, his voice almost swallowed.
I almost askedLet you what?but then remembered that the last time he’d tried to touch me in this kitchen, I’d shied away from him, and I felt a flush of shame creep up my neck.
Elliot ran his fingers through my hair, cradling my skull in his hands. “Not what I meant, baby,” he said softly, sounding upset. “I just?—”
I leaned into him, bringing our foreheads back together. “I know. I’m still sorry.”
Elliot gave me another gentle kiss. “Don’t be.” He pulled back, pressing one more kiss to my forehead, then settled on the other side of the table. “What can you tell me about the case? Or isn’t Val talking?”
