The cold was a physical weight. It settled into her clothes, into her skin, into the marrow of her bones.

  Nomi shivered, a violent, rattling spasm that she couldn't suppress.

  It had been so perfect. That was the cruelty of it. It wasn't just the warmth or the silk dresses or the bottomless champagne that never made her sick. It was the silence. In the ballroom, the constant, screaming static of her guilt had just… stopped. The ghosts of the people she’d killed didn't follow her across the dance floor.

  And Talos.

  Her chest ached with a hollow, physical hunger when she thought of him—the Dream Him. He had looked at her with such easy affection. No judgment. No memory of the sister she’d left in a growing red pool. He had loved her simply because she was there.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn't block out the room.

  Reality assaulted her. The safe house smelled of old rot, black mold, and old, sour beer. It smelled of dust mites and rain. And over it all, thick and pungent, was the scent of Talos.

  Sweat. Wet wool. Iron.

  It was overwhelming. Without the dream’s filter, her senses were screaming. She could hear the rain drumming against the boarded windows like a thousand fingers. She could hear the settling of the timber.

  And she could hear his heart.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  It was rapid. Uneven.

  Talos—the rock, the anchor, the man who walked through fire without blinking—was terrified.

  That terrified her more than the dream.

  She looked at him. He was staring out the window, eyes tracing every raindrop and shadow, his jaw set so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. He looked exhausted. He looked broken. And he looked miles away.

  He wouldn't look at her. He hadn't looked her in the eye since the alley.

  He thinks I’m a monster, the voice in her head whispered. Or worse. He thinks I’m weak.

  She needed him to be real. She needed to know he wasn't going to vanish into smoke if she touched him.

  Nomi shifted, her wet clothes squelching unpleasantly, and nuzzled into his side. She pressed her face against his damp shoulder, inhaling the scent of him, letting the grime and the sweat ground her.

  Talos flinched.

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  His entire body tensed, the muscles under his tunic turning to stone. For a second, she thought he was going to shove her away.

  His mouth opened. She heard the sharp intake of breath, the beginning of a word—maybe a reprimand, maybe a question.

  Then, he stopped.

  Slowly, stiffly, he lifted his arm. He wrapped it around her shoulders, his hand gripping her upper arm tight enough to bruise. It wasn't a hug. It was a clamp. It was him holding onto her so he didn't float away either.

  He still stared out the window. He still refused to meet her gaze.

  But the warmth of his body began to seep into hers, fighting back the chill. The two trembled in the dark, backs against the door. Through the door, an innumerable amount of monsters, real and imagined waited to tear them apart.

  “...This sucks.”

  She muttered the words into his chest, her voice vibrating against his ribs.

  She sat like that for a while, soaking in the heat, before a small, broken smile crossed her lips.

  “But at least my lover is hugging me again.”

  Talos paused. He glanced down, his chin tucking to look at her, and let out a small, tired huff of air that might have been a laugh.

  “...How do you do that?”

  “Mm?”

  “You pick the absolute worst time to tell jokes.”

  “Well, what else are we gonna do? We look pathetic. Might as well be pathetic and funny.”

  “Can’t you let me just be miserable for five minutes?”

  “Nope.”

  Nomi bumped her forehead into his chin. His head thumped lightly against the door behind him.

  Silence sat between them for a little while. It wasn't the empty silence of the illusion; it was heavy and filled with the sound of the rain and their own breathing. Nomi tucked herself back against him, listening to the steady, reassuring thump-thump of his heart.

  “How did you… get out of it?” She asked, her voice a touch softer, stripping away the humor. “Because for me, it was… perfect. You didn’t brood. You didn’t look at me like I was a bomb about to go off. You just danced.”

  Talos shifted his weight, his arm tightening around her shoulders.

  “You weren’t there,” he rumbled. “The illusion pretended. It wore your face. It wore a red dress. But it wasn’t right.”

  He looked down at her, his dark eyes tracing the mess of soaked hair and the bruise forming on her cheek where she'd hit her face on the cobbles.

  “She was polite,” Talos said, the word dripping with disdain. “She leaned on my arm like a lady. She didn't make fun of me. She didn't twitch. She called me ‘Talos’ like she was afraid of offending me.”

  He reached up with his free hand, brushing a lock of sodden hair out of her eyes.

  “It was boring, Nomi. It was quiet and soft and boring. And I knew within five minutes that I’d rather be freezing to death in an alley with the real you than dancing with a doll.”

  Nomi’s entire body tensed, and she jammed her face into the crook of his neck. He tensed again, still not used to letting her this close.

  “That’s a bit—much,” he grunted.

  She adjusted quickly, back to how she was sitting before. Still close, but not so close he couldn’t breath.

  “Next you’re gonna say you like my ears.”

  “Like I’d ever admit that, mutant.”

  “You said admit?”

  “I meant say.”

  “You said admit.”

  “Pest.”

  “Yep.”

  He huffed, his hand still wrapped around her, rubbing her arm gently. Despite how cold she was, how fucked up her brain felt, it was the warmest she’d felt in months.