Don't wear that. Loch's voice comes out of nowhere. I didn't even think he was awake and yet honestly? We both wake up when the other even so much as changes from REM sleep to stage one.
Why not? I ask. It's emotionless. I don't know. I'm tired but curious, always.
You don't need to be wrapped in him today. Come see me.
I debate. I'm warm. It's already on. He's breaking promises, asking me to do things he said he'd never ask me to do again.
(Bridget, we're going to skip dinner tonight. Okay? Just tonight. We'll have a big breakfast tomorrow.)
(Cole will keep you safe.)
(It's always going to be just you and me, against the world.)
But he's trying hard, and this isn't the hill I want to die on, arguing over a big worn-out scratchy hand knit sweater with a hole in one elbow and singed cuffs and paint streaks on the back of the hem.
I pull it back off slowly, up over my head and when I put my arms back down, letting the sweater drop to the floor, he tells me I can wear his hoodie from yesterday.
It smells like rain and sugar and pine needles and dryer sheets and adventure and hope. Like Lochlan.
I zip it all the way up to my neck and stick my hands in the pockets. I pull out a playing card (three of hearts, always the magician) and his reading glasses. Both go on the nightstand. He throws his arms around my legs and drags me back into bed with him, whipping the covers down over us, smiling in the dark as he shoves my pyjama pants all the way down to my knees and then off.
Sleep, Peanut.
How long?
Just until the fog lifts. Then we work. (He's half asleep now, words come out via muscle memory.)
What if we didn't work today?
Then we can sleep till the sun hits the bed. Deal?
Deal.
When I woke up next (when Lochlan stopped dreaming), sunshine had flooded the room and the three of hearts was in my hand.