Reaching over, he brushes my hair behind my ear. “You’re not the hot, burning fire, because you’re there even after a long, hard rain.” He swallows and takes a breath. “You’re not the sun, because you’re there in the darkest night.” He traces my lips with his thumb. “Arrow . . .” “You can’t be the wind—beneath my wings or otherwise”—he laughs and then his smile falls away as he traces his thumb down the column of my neck—“because you keep me warm during the deepest winter.” He closes his eyes, lifts his hand from my neck, and clenches his fist.
