I woke with my head on something cold and squashy. I sat up, or started to, but Nate had curled up with his head on my chest and one arm tight around my waist. I couldn’t quite see his face, so for a moment I thought he was still asleep—after all, the man had been running a sleep deficit for the last ten years, at least. But his arm tightened around me. “I thought it might have been a dream,” he said without prologue. “What happened…I woke up and I couldn’t decide whether I wanted it to have been a dream.” “Good morning to you too,” I said. He laughed against my skin. There’s something wonderfully resonant about someone speaking when you’re lying next to his chest. I was sore all over and very sore in some places, I could feel the moss oozing all down my back, and neither one of us smelled very good, but I felt better than I had in ages. My conscience prickled with a reminder of all the things waiting for us back in Boston, but I pushed it to the back of my mind for now.
