Lila ignored him. She peered into Dixon’s room, but the bed hadn’t been slept in. All his posters and flags had been removed, leaving sad, barren walls. They’d also been prepped for paint.
“Doc wanted to keep an eye on him downstairs. He seems okay, just tired and sleeping a lot. Can’t keep anything down, either. He writes that he feels okay, but I suspect he’s just trying to—”
“Get you to relax?”
“I don’t need to relax.”
“Yes, you do. You’re worried about your brother.”
He dropped his hands to sides. “Dixon’s fine.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah, sounds like it.”
“Sometimes I clean.”
“And bite your nails?” She gathered up his hands and looked at his fingertips, wincing at how close they’d been cut. “And paint?”
“Dixon’s been complaining that there’s no color in here for ages. He says that it’s too boring.” Tristan pulled away. He marched over to a few canisters on the ground and started lining them up. “I’m doing the main room in purple, then I’m going to do his room. I bought a ton of tacky colors. Which do you think? I thought it could be a surprise for when he gets back. I could do each wall in a different color, or maybe even stripes. I’m kind of curious if a room can be too colorful for him.”
“Is the hall window a surprise as well?”
“No, it just needed… That’s how you came in the other day,” he said, spinning around. “You jumped across.” His eyes went from amused to worried in a split second. “What on earth were you—”
“Don’t worry. You’ve fixed it. I’ll have to find another way in the next time I want to be a brat.”
“How are your hands?” he asked, biting his thumbnail again. “I thought you said they were fine. They’re all wrapped up.”
“It’s just a few stitches, Tristan. I can’t ride my Firefly for a few weeks, but I’ll be fine.”
“That looks like more than a few stitches. What about your neck?”
“It’s fine.”
“I was worried.” He stepped in close and put his arms around her. He held on a little too long, and he knew it. “I’m like the silly boy at the vineyard now.”
Lila didn’t let him pull away. She smelled whiskey, his soap, the smell that covered his sheets and clothes. She closed her eyes and held him around the waist, leaning her head upon his shoulder, breathing him in. “Everything’s okay, Tristan. You’re fine. Dixon is fine. I’m fine. All of your people are fine.”
“How is any of this fine? I told you that you’d be okay, and you almost died. Reaper had a knife at your throat.” Tristan’s heart beat faster and faster against her chest. “Dixon…”
“Dixon is okay.”
Tristan pulled away from her arms and backed against the wall. He thrust his fists in his pockets as though he didn’t know where to put his hands. “No, he’s not. I chose, Lila. Reaper raised that knife, and I chose.”
“Chose?”
His gaze strayed to the heater. “If that had been poison, I would have lost my brother.”
“You didn’t choose. You didn’t have time to think. Reaper was going to hurt someone, and you acted.”
“No, he wasn’t going to hurt someone. He was going to hurt you.”
“Tristan—”
“I didn’t just act. I thought. I decided. I chose, knowing what could happen. I chose you, and I don’t know if Dixon is ever going to forget that.”