When he’s kissed my thumb for the last time, I’m being pulled into his arms. My back is pressed against his bare chest, and he holds me tight despite his wound. A hand is running over my short hair, fingers brushing my neck. “Thank you,” I whisper, placing my hand on the arm wrapped around my waist. He leans his head against mine. “Are you feeling better?” I’m quiet, considering his question. “For the first time in a while, I feel like that’s a possibility.”
