Billy shaved with my blade today.
He didn’t ask. Just picked it up like it belonged to him and squatted by the stream, muttering complaints about sand and stubble. I sat nearby, pretending to read, watching the sharp curve of steel dance along his jaw.
When he was done, he handed the knife back handle-first. “Thanks,” he said, and winked. “Didn’t nick myself once. You’re welcome.”
“Pity,” I said. “I was hoping for a dramatic bloodletting.”
He grinned. “Only if you promise to kiss it better.”
My mouth went dry. He walked off whistling.
We spent the day tending small chores. Billy patched a saddlebag, I repaired the strap on his canteen. He insisted mine was a lost cause and tried to bargain with a squirrel for its acorn stash instead. I nearly choked on dried fruit.
But underneath it all—every joke, every task—was that same hum, that same electric undercurrent. We didn’t touch, but every breath felt like a dare. Every glance landed like a match.
That night, he crawled into his bedroll early and muttered, “If you ever do feel like telling me everything… I won’t run.”
I said nothing.
But I didn’t sleep.
