Page 68 of Fang Fatale

Especially not with my hands.

One minute she's ranking the best donuts in Blackthorn Bay.

The next...

Her cheek is resting against her folded arms.

Breathing slow.

Even.

I watch in quiet awe as every line of tension gradually melts from her body.

Like she's finally allowing gravity to hold her instead of fighting it.

There's something almost sacred about it.

I don't remember when she moves.

Only that sometime after two in the morning—somewhere between the haunted merry-go-round story and her theory that air fryers are government propaganda—Birdie's head tips against my thigh...

...and simply stays there.

At first I assume it's tactical.

Stay close to the vampire.

Reduce the avenues of attack.

But her breathing is deep and even, and the tiny unconscious scrunch between her brows tells me something I hadn't expected.

She's safe.

At least...

She feels safe.

For one thoroughly undignified moment, I have absolutely no idea what to do with my hands.

I've always thought I carried them rather well.

Part of the uniform.

Part of the myth.

Now they seem absurd.

Long.

Awkward.

About as useful as dinosaur claws.

A few strands of her hair drift across her cheek.

I brush them back.

Gently.