Page 22 of Molt

“And I’m taking that jar.”

“No.”

She turns.

I catch her before she reaches it and she fights me.

I let her.

She claws my wrist. Kicks my shin. Elbows my ribs. “Let me fucking go!” She yells thrashing against me.

“No.”

“It’s mine!”

“Exactly.” I whisper.

She stops. Her back is pressed against my chest.

My arm is around her waist.

Too close.

Fuck.

I can smell her hair.

Soap and sleep.

Her.

My body remembers before my mind can stop it. My hand tightens against her stomach.

Her breathing changes.

So does mine.

Neither of us moves.

This is how it happens.

Not with magic. Not with blood. Not with some ancient fucking incantation.

This.

Recognition.

Bodies remembering what minds have forgotten.

Her head tilts slightly.

My mouth is inches from her neck.

The fresh skin there glistens.

I can feel her pulse pounding rapidly beneath the skin.

Mine matches it.