Chapter Text
"Day goes by so slow when you're not with me
Nights are long and oh so, hard to bare
Everything is nothing dear without you"
“And then,” she continued, barely pausing for breath, “there was this whole argument about whether adding fruit made it a salad or a dessert, which personally I think is ridiculous because if it jiggles, it can’t be a salad, right? Salads don’t bounce! It is very obviously a cake.” She giggled at her own explanation, a bright sound that bounced off the empty road.
“Communal dining was very important to us. Eating together made people feel safer, more connected. Which I think explains a lot about why the Wasteland feels lonely, people don’t really sit and eat together anymore, do they? I’m glad we eat together otherwise I might feel the same way.”
“My vault had an obsession with farming, nothing like the ones we’ve passed by but with hydroponics! We used to have a Cooperative Yield Event day, where the whole vault came together to sow our harvest for the season. We grew beans, potatoes, cucumbers, peaches, sunflowers and what we were best at, corn!”
“I was part of the Young Huskers Club, you know? Harvesting Tomorrow, Today!” she chirped. “We had to sort and organize the corn for processing, the most efficient husker got the honor of picking the first corn of the harvest, isn't that fun? Not to toot my own horn but I did get ‘Top Yield Performer’ three years in a row.”
“And we had a pickle barrel. They made the best pickles you’ve ever tasted. Sweet and sour, perfectly crunchy. Right before I left, my dad drowned my ex husband in one, I hope they were able to save them, it would be a shame to waste them.”
“We had picnic tables with plaid tablecloths, blue and white like the sky, they made everything feel homey. Everyone sat around, passing trays of food and telling stories about their day, mostly farming mind you. The debate between Garden Feed pre war fertilizer versus our own vault made compost was a heated discussion. I never noticed a difference but people had very strong opinions on the topic.” she said respectfully.
“Did I tell you about our food? Because corn was our main crop we used it for everything, cornbread, corn chowder, corn muffins, corn cakes, corn fritters, hominy, grits, creamed corn, polenta, popcorn, corn chips, corn casseroles, and I can't forget the classic, corn on the cob!”
“And oh! How could I forget! We had contests too. Who could grow the tallest corn? My cousin Chet won that one, no surprise!” she laughed at what must have been an inside joke. “Who could make the best pickles? Betty had a special recipe from her grandmother! Who could fold a tablecloth exactly like the handbook said? My dad always won that one, he said something about how he used to do dry cleaning. Who could shuck corn the fastest? I almost won once! Who could guess the crop yield? My brother, Norm, somehow always won even though he didn't care. Naturally, I participated in all of them.”
Ahead of her, the Ghoul listened.
He told himself he wasn’t listening at all. Her endless chatter was something that never ended since they left the Observatory weeks ago. There was no substance to it, endless customs explained in a world that had no place surviving in the Wasteland. At the beginning he tried to show he didn't listen, dismissing her words and showing no interest. But he quickly learned it made no difference if he interjected his opinion or not.
She kept walking as she talked, ponytail swaying, boots crunching steadily against cracked pavement. She speculated about whether any vaults had their own competition and plaid tablecloths. Even if he wanted to answer, she asked herself questions and answered them so rapidly, he never stood a chance.
Some days, when the roads were especially long that day, he found her chatter filled the silence of the Wasteland in a way that was almost pleasant. Not that he would ever admit it. Other days, he barely registered the words at all. He only heard her tone, the high pitched inflection when she was excited, a lower pitch when she was feeling homesick, a giggle when she made herself laugh. On rare occasions, he caught himself smirking at the absurdity of vault life and how serious she took it, for a fleeting moment she was entertaining.
And yet… sometimes, something she said bothered him. The way she talked about the plaid tablecloths, for instance. How the fuck could a tablecloth be so important? He almost found himself picturing it, imagining the plaid pattern beneath a tray of fresh steaming overly preserved food.
Her voice carried down the road again. He let a grunt slip out before he could stop himself. Not wanting to enter the conversation but a reminder he still existed. She didn’t seem to notice or maybe she did and didn’t care.
A dangerous thought struck him then, he almost wanted to tell her about pre war meals, his matching yellow kitchen and all the fancy appliances he had in it. About the barbeques in his backyard, or how it felt to drive his convertible in the sun with Roosevelt riding shotgun. He figured she’d love the car, the butter yellow paint would suit her perfectly, and he could already hear her giggling as the wind whipped through her hair. He wanted to tell her about his hot tub that could warm his bones even on the coldest California night. The cocktails he made and sometimes invented himself. She probably didn't even know what a hot tub was… but he held his tongue he couldn't fuel her curiosity. Not when sentimentality only dug up memories that hurt and gave her more foothold into his past than he already had.
She carried on about gardening techniques, how to pick the best apples, the intricacies of crop rotations, and about the moral significance of communal meals in plaid-covered tables. He tried to care about some of it, even catching himself occasionally nodding or, more accurately, thinking he might have been nodding.
Mostly, though, it was noise. Noise he tolerated because she needed to fill the silence and he’d rather her ramble on about vault life than answer questions about his own.
And, truth be told, sometimes… he actually liked the noise.
⸻
He had found them a shallow alcove tucked away between a cluster of boulders, the rock faces curved inward forming a natural wall. It wasn’t much, but it was sheltered from the wind and hidden from any wandering eyes. The ground was littered with remnants of someone’s abandoned camp. A rusted tin plate, the bent frame of a chair, planks of wood awkwardly stacked, and other scraps of pre-war junk buried in the dirt.
Lucy immediately dropped her pack with a thud, tugging at the straps and muttering frustrations under her breath while she attempted to free it.
“You know, you really don’t have to walk so fast,” she huffed, finally straightening. She shook out her blanket, snapping it open with more force than necessary. “I know my legs are not as long as yours, obviously, I get it, biology!” Her annoyance heavy in her voice as she whipped the blanket through the air, sending a puff of dust his way.
The Ghoul barely glanced over, too busy surveying the alcove with a careful eye, weighing what spot would be best for tonight's fire. He pulled some stones together, gathered what kindling lay around and set to work. Lucy’s voice carried on behind him, bouncing off the stone. He acted like it was background noise but he found himself adjusting his movements anyway, slowing enough to make out what she was saying.
“I know that you’ve got these overly long, rugged stupid ghoul legs that make it look like you’re gliding through the Wasteland effortlessly, while I’m left trying not to fall on my face every two steps.”
She shot a quick glance his way before looking away just as fast. “It’s annoying because, maybe it’s… sorta nice to look up at you, but it also makes keeping up with you really, really annoying!” She suddenly stopped herself, fingers curling tightly into the blanket and realizing she might have said too much.
He’d tuned out her chatter hours ago, letting it fade into the background while he worked on the fire but now she had his full attention. The Ghoul rested against the stone behind him, posture loose, eyes steady on her as if he’d been paying attention all along. He watched the way she stiffened, her shoulders drew in like she was bracing for something.
“I didn’t mean… I… it’s annoying! It is also rude not to wait for your traveling companion!” she said, throwing her hands in the air flustered. A moment passed, she hesitated, then squared her shoulders, chin lifting as if preparing for a lecture.
“And it’s dangerous! You’re not supposed to split up out here. That’s basic survival, staying together, maintaining visual contact, reducing risk,” she listed off each one with a different finger like she was counting. “It’s, well um… very well documented in the Vault Dweller's Survival Guide: Pocket Reference Edition, in which I have read numerous times,” she added more firmly, her tone carrying that unmistakable “I’m right, you’re wrong” edge.
He leaned further back into the rock, the rough stone dug at his shoulder as he gave her a skeptical look. Her face flushed pink, eyes widening with sudden awareness of how much she’d said and how quickly she’d spiraled.
“You mean to tell me we’ve been losin’ hours because you find my lil ol legs annoyin’,” he repeated, voice flat, but amused. “Well now, since you gone and shared that bit o’ information with me, how might I be inclined to use it?”
He clicked his tongue in mock thought. Then kicked his boot out and leaned back against the rock, resting in a practiced pose. It was the kind he used back in the day for magazine shoots, the ones the girls used to like and ask for autographs of. His one hand draped casually over his knee, the other on the rock behind him, he stretched his legs out just enough to accentuate their length, head tilted and eyes narrowing on her, daring her to react.
The pose was all confidence, pure mockery of her words. A part of him felt absurd, acting like this, but it vanished the second he saw her fluster, a pink creeping into her cheeks. A flicker of mischief tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I think my very long and very handsome legs are just itchin’ to set a faster pace tomorrow.” he drawled, each word deliberate, the smirk spreading fully across his lips.
He watched Lucy freeze in place, cheeks warming more than before. “I…what? No, no! Well since you, no, I mean… I’m saying… it’s hard to keep up, okay? That’s all. Hard to keep up!”
“That’s mighty convincin’ Miss. MacLean, I didn't realize my height was such a distraction.” he said smoothly, leaning back into the rock, hips jutting enough to exaggerate those long legs she liked so much. A warm, satisfying feeling crept over him as he noticed her eyes wander up and down his figure, her cheeks blooming a brighter pink. Her shoulders hunched defensively and she suddenly got very interested in smoothing wrinkles from her bedroll.
A moment passed and a twinge of self-consciousness struck him, no one had looked at him that way since before the war. He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable by her lingering eyes and settled back into a more natural posture, trying to soothe his prickling nerves.
He wasn’t sure why he’d struck the pose in the first place, an old habit from a time when his managers told him to let girls ogle him for movie promos. Back then, it did nothing for him except sell more tickets and make the studios happy, but now under her soft gaze it felt vastly different.
“You know what I meant!” she snapped, breaking the moment. She was standing now, shoulders stiff, voice sharp. “You are impossible and purposely misunderstanding me!” She righted herself, taking a breath, a hand on her hip, he was in for a full lecture now.
“Furthermore, intentionally misunderstanding someone goes against the Golden Rule,” she added in that infuriatingly earnest, goody two shoes voice she always slipped into when she thought she was being convincing. His eyes roll involuntarily at her futile attempt to lecture him.
“Generally speakin’, rules work best when you follow' em yourself sweetheart,” he said, rolling a match thoughtfully between his gloved fingers.
He struck it off his boot and lowered it to light the kindling. The small pile caught quickly, flames licking upward and casting warm, flickering light across the alcove. When he looked back at her, he watched emotions dance across her face, the stubbornness and frustration melting into something…
Her brown eyes reflected his silhouette in the fire’s glow. Her features softened in a way he hadn’t expected, her open gaze catching him momentarily off guard.
Against his nature, he held her stare. An unspoken feeling rippled between them, the fire caught her soft features and an unwelcome feeling tugged in his chest.
“And you ain’t no rulebreaker now are ya vaultie?” he added with a sharp edge, letting the finger she’d bitten off glide over his lips, teasing it between his teeth. Their eyes met, a sly smirk curved his mouth as he watched color rise along her neck.
She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, fists curling at her sides. Her face went completely red and her eyes were glued to her finger tracing his mouth.
“I’m going to bed,” she declared sharply, her voice catching a little on the last word. She flopped onto her bedroll, curled onto her side, facing pointedly away from him and pulled the blanket tight around her.
He grunted his indifference in response before settling down beside the fire, resting his back against the rock. He stayed like that for a moment, staring absently into the flames, replaying fragments of their conversation. He had pushed her, more than he usually bothered to.
Looking back, the urge to tease her surprised him, he had done it without thinking and never in that way before. What surprised him more was how she’d reacted, she’d tried to backtrack like she hadn’t meant to let him see any of it. His jaw tightened and he pulled his hat low over his eyes, hoping to shut his thoughts down with sleep.
The quiet that settled over the campsite was heavier than he expected.
Usually, she’d fill the night with idle chatter or flipping mindlessly through her Pipboy. Eventually she would taper off once sleep finally claimed her. Tonight, there was no steady lull of her voice, only the occasional crackle of fire and wind howling through the rocks.
He shifted once, then again, unable to get comfortable. Something felt off and he firmly told himself it was the jagged rock beneath him and certainly not the absence of her voice.
That night he stayed awake far longer than usual, staring into the flames, stubbornly refusing to even consider that it had anything at all to do with the girl lying a few feet away.
⸻
By the time he woke, morning had come too fast. The sun was already harsh and bright to his sore eyes, he'd barely slept at all.
Lucy was already up when he stirred, moving with a clipped efficiency that didn’t match her usual routine. She packed her gear without a word, shoulders squared and set off without him. He blinked dumbly after her figure, no chipper “good morning” or commentary on the importance of a good night's sleep.
The Ghoul watched her back for a long minute, brow furrowing under the brim of his hat. He grunted, shouldered his own pack, and followed after her for once. She must still be irritated at him from last night.
The road stretched ahead of them, quiet. Too quiet.
After an hour, he caught himself listening for things that should be there. They passed by bones scattered in the sand, and she didn’t pause to wonder what kind of animal had left them behind. A deserted shack along the highway that normally would have her coming up with a story of who lived there and for how long. Even at the toxic waste site, he waited for the inevitable lecture on how irresponsible waste disposal is poor stewardship and not to mention highly illegal.
Ordinarily, the sites and encounters they ran across in the Wasteland left her with more questions than he had answers too. He’d respond with a distracted “mhm” while barely listening and she would ramble on as if he said nothing at all. But now, as they entered under the shade of an overpass decorated with graffiti, she didn’t pause to decipher the words or wonder who had left the crude pictures behind.
All he got were footsteps and the occasional whisper of wind. Hours had passed now, the silence gnawed at him more than he cared to admit along with a prickle of unease that had settled in the back of his mind.
He tried to push the thought away, telling himself it was nothing, people could be quiet in the morning. But Lucy wasn’t quiet. Was she still upset from last night? They’d been harsher to each other before, last night was tame in comparison to when they first met. Even then she still spoke to him, even if it was with contempt. He thought they had worked through their differences weeks ago and a tiff as small as last night shouldn't give her any reason to give him the silent treatment.
He frowned. Why did it even matter? He should be happy, elated even that the Wasteland was quiet again. He had lived in silence for decades, this was a welcome return.
His eyes flicked to her every so often, catching the tension in her shoulders and the corners of her eyes. He scowled at himself again. He shouldn’t care, if she wanted to be a child and not speak to him so be it. He lived centuries without company in his travels, he could easily do it again.
He told himself not to look but every time she adjusted her pack or swiped hair out of her eyes his gaze betrayed him. He noted the way she flinched slightly at each movement, she seemed agitated and her throat moved as if swallowing hurt.
He gritted his teeth and forced his eyes ahead, though the quiet wormed its way under his skin.
The Wasteland was never this silent. Not with her.
⸻
By midday, it was obvious. Lucy wasn’t talking.
Not one word had passed her lips since last night. Not even a breathy remark to herself about vault rules and regulations. He frowned, jaw tightening. He threw out the sulking theory, this was now a deliberate choice on her end.
He watched her pause to drink from her canteen and wipe her mouth away with the back of her hand. She then shook the canteen, frowning at its empty answer. She winced once, small, almost imperceptible.
He narrowed his eyes.
Quiet like this didn't suit her. Lucy talked regardless of what she was feeling. He’d heard her ramble on through dangerous radstorms, tense gunfights, even them running for their lives from a cazador nest they stumbled upon accidentally. She’d always bounced back no matter the situation or emotion.
By midafternoon, he found himself fully committed to watching her instead of the road. He waited for it, a comment, a question, a useless observation about some collapsed diner or faded sign. They had passed many things that normally perked her interest by now and yet still nothing.
Maybe she was really mad.
He huffed at the thought, he hadn’t yelled or threatened her. It seemed unlikely for her to carry a grudge over something as small as him walking too fast. Besides, he had even let her keep the pace today hoping she would comment on it.
Maybe she’d finally run out of things to say. He nearly laughed at that, impossible.
She could talk about dirt if you let her. She’d happily spout off about its history, classifications, soil compositions, and something along the lines of “optimal soil chemistry is essential to maximize agricultural yield and nutrient density!'
The thought left him feeling strange. A tight, warmth settled deep in his chest. His mouth twitched in a small smile before he could stop it, he was grateful she was walking ahead of him today so she didn’t catch it. He scowled, something must be wrong with him if he was missing the sound of someone explaining dirt.
He opened his mouth, not even sure what he meant to say to her, but thought better of it and snapped it shut. If she wanted to play the game of being mute, fine. He wasn’t about to be the one who let her win.
A sharp stab of guilt ran through him. Lucy didn’t play mean games like that, she didn’t have it in her, not even with someone as awful as he had been to her.
He caught himself straining for sound, her footsteps on pavement, the soft hitch of her breathing, the rustle of her pack when she shifted. All the usual little noises were there, but her voice was gone, it left him feeling more unsettled than he cared to admit.
Suddenly it became very apparent just how much space her voice used to fill between them and how empty it was without it. His jaw tightened, missing her incessant chatter wasn’t supposed to get under his skin like this.
And yet, the silence invaded his thoughts, his chest tightened under the suffocating weight caused by the absence of her voice.
⸻
By the afternoon, he finally noticed it.
A cloud of dust whipped past and she uncharacteristically froze mid-step, her hand went to her throat like she was choking. She attempted to clear it and the rasp that tore from her was sharp, painful, and she swallowed so carefully afterward, wincing with each breath.
A memory he’d long buried flicked in his mind and brow tightened in realization.
Oh.
This wasn’t stubbornness or lingering anger at him, she was sick.
Cooper let out a low sigh, irritation and relief tangled together. He started noticing the other small signs more clearly, the slight flush to her cheeks that wasn't there this morning, her pace had slowed now and the occasional shiver despite the hot afternoon sun.
Why hadn’t she tried to tell him? Maybe she didn’t want to, maybe she thought he’d see her as weak, or worse, a burden.
The thought made him frown, more at himself than at her.
Something stirred in him, a restless urge to do something. He remembered when he had been face first passed out in the dirt after he sold her and yet she still took mercy on him. He wasn’t so cruel that he wouldn’t return the favor, even if he’d never admit it aloud.
His eyes fell on her canteen, he recalled it was empty. He quickened his pace to catch up to her and reached to pull out his own canteen. He extended it to her wordlessly.
She blinked up at him, a faint surprise in her eyes, but took it. He turned away, pretending to check the horizon in front of them. They walked on and he didn’t ask for it back like he normally would.
He told himself it was practical, a sore throat in the desert heat would only lead to her getting worse and slowing them down more.
As she drank, he noticed in the corner of his eye, the slight tremble of her hands when she gritted her teeth against a cough. The water should have helped but apparently it was worse than he thought.
They walked on and he couldn’t stop noticing her. More and more often with every swallow he saw her wince and discreetly rub her throat with her hand. She was hurting and not doing a very good job of hiding it anymore.
His stomach twisted. He wasn’t supposed to notice her suffering, let alone care, and yet it gnawed at him all the same.
Ahead, a small cluster of foliage caught his eye, before he knew what he was doing he broke off towards them.
“Be right back,” he assured her no longer caring he lost their silent game.
He headed off for a cluster of broc flowers growing freely in the dirt. Their delicate sunset orange blooms swayed in the breeze, as he got closer he could smell their sweet herbal scent. Wastelanding had taught him broc flowers could make a soothing tea, gentle on a sore throat.
For a moment, his eyes lingered on a single bloom. He could picture it tucked safely behind her ear, its bright color contrasting with her dark hair. He shook his head to clear it but a warmth still crept into his cheeks.
He picked a few that look best and carefully placed them in his pack for later. As he turned back to join her he paused, eyes catching a patch of prickly pear cacti lining the edge of a rocky boulder. The magenta fruit looked perfectly ripe, sitting atop of the cactus pads, teasing to be picked.
His fingers twitched. He could do it. He should do it.
He hesitated, trying to talk himself out of it. With a frustrated grunt, he walked closer, taking care not to prick himself on the thorns as he reached for them. He collected only the ripest fruit, selecting them by how soft they were.
For a moment, he paused, glancing back toward her as she walked ahead, oblivious to his detour. He picked one more, satisfied he started back toward her, the small bundle of fruit in his hand feeling heavier than it should.
As he walked to catch up to her, he pulled out his knife and began carefully scraping away the tiny, stubborn spines from each piece. She shouldn’t have to wrestle with the prickly pads herself, not when she was already feeling sick. The thought made him feel a little lighter, though he wondered if she would even notice.
By the time he reached her, the handful of cactus fruit was free of thorns, ready for her to enjoy. He held out a single, perfectly cleaned piece and offered it in her direction. “Here,” he said gruffly, looking anywhere but at her.
She blinked up at him and stared at the fruit in his hand. She then carefully took it, her fingers accidentally brushing his. Cooper felt too warm under her touch and he quickly shoved the feeling down, blaming it on the heat.
He watched her skim her fingers across the fruit for thorns and look up at him in surprise when she found none. He became very interested in some ruins in the far off distance, refusing to comment on it.
As she bit into it, the juice stained her lips a deep, vibrant red. It reminded him too much of the old world's calendar girls and he intentionally looked away. She chewed slowly, savoring it, completely oblivious to the way he stole glances every few steps.
When she finished her first piece he promptly handed her another one. She gave him a faint, grateful smile. He grunted in response, making sure not to stare at her tinted lips when she took another bite.
They started walking again, a few steps later, she brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his side. Cooper nearly jumped at the contact, was she worse off than he thought? He had hoped the fruit might give her the sugar boost she needed to keep going.
A little while after, it happened again but this time, she didn’t move away and neither did he. Their shoulders stayed pressed together and they simply fell into step like that, her warmth pressing against his side.
Cooper’s chest tightened but he forced himself to think rationally. She was clearly feeling sick and must need a little extra support. After all, a twisted ankle from tripping was something neither of them needed to deal with, there was nothing more to it.
She leaned further into him and the contact sent a spark of heightened awareness through him. It was an uncomfortably familiar feeling that he didn’t want to name. It was perfectly normal for two people to brush shoulders while walking across the Wasteland he told himself.
The irritation he had felt toward her earlier was completely forgotten now, replaced by something warmer and left a fluttering in his chest. He leaned just a little closer and for the first time all day he found her silence didn’t bother him in the slightest.
⸻
By the time evening crept over the horizon, they had found a campsite for the night. It was a small cave carved out of the rockface, he had her wait outside while he checked inside for signs of life. Once it was clear, he waved her in, immediately scanning the area for a fire site.
“You sit,” he instructed, already moving toward a cluster of wood.
Lucy blinked at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. Normally she would put up a fight and insist she help. But tonight she obediently dropped to the ground, unpacking her bedroll and blanket. He could hear her let out a scratchy sigh when she wrapped herself in it.
She must be cold, he thought. He hurried his search for smaller twigs and kindling, gathering a handful and arranging it to start a fire. It caught flame easily and he went back to grab larger pieces to ensure it would burn throughout the night.
Every now and then, he glanced back at her. She was sitting curled up, her hands outstretched toward the fire, face relaxed in the soft light. She looked smaller than normal. In the safety of the shadows, he smiled softly, satisfied she was more comfortable.
When he was finished, he joined her beside the fire, lowering himself onto the ground. He reached inside his pack and pulled a dented tin cup free. Grabbing his canteen he filled it with water and set it near the flames, nudging it closer until droplets along the metal began to hiss.
Once the water began to bubble and steam, he dropped two broc flowers in, watching as the petals wilted under the heat. A berry-like scent with a note of citrus filled the space between them. It took him back to early mornings before going to the studio, when he’d make himself a cup of Earl Gray tea paired with a scone he’d pick up the day before from a local bakery.
He let it steep to ensure the water was fully infused. Then he waited until the handle cooled to a safe temperature before passing it to her wordlessly.
She lifted the cup carefully, steam brushing her face, and took a small tentative sip.
Immediately, relief filled her face after she swallowed. She took another, longer drink, then another, the tension easing. It reminded him of a memory long ago of small hands around a mug of hot chocolate that was always too big, blowing on the hot liquid until steam curled away harmlessly.
He turned away and bit into his own cactus fruit he had saved, chewing slowly, eyes set on the fire. From the corner of his eye, he watched her drink again, no longer wincing.
The next time they made eye contact, her eyes were teary with gratitude and was caught off guard by the unmistakable adoration that lay in them.
HIs heart skipped a beat and he shifted, suddenly very aware of her open attention on him. He cleared his throat and looked away, muttering something unintelligible as pulled out his rifle needing something to occupy his hands with and quell the overwhelming urge to look back.
Time slipped by as he cleaned his rifle, the familiar motions grounding. The fire crackled steady between them, and he sat there polishing his rifle, repeating to himself that this didn't mean anything, it was as simple as keeping his travel partner functional. A healthy vaultie meant less downtime, fewer delays and no wasted caps on medicine.
The next time he went to steal a glance he saw Lucy had fallen asleep.
She was curled on her side near the fire, a blanket pulled up around her shoulders. She seemed normal at first but then he noticed a faint shiver run through her, her breath was uneven and she curled tighter around herself when another chill shook her frame.
Cooper frowned. The night air had cooled more than he’d expected. He watched her for a moment longer than necessary and set another piece of wood into the embers of the fire to coax the warmth back.
He told himself she was asleep and she would warm up once her body settled.
He stared up at the cave's ceiling, listening. Every so often, her blanket rustled as another shiver ran through her, her movements searching for warmth and failing.
Finally, he sat up, unable to take it anymore. He snatched his own blanket out his pack.
He crossed the room and crouched beside her, careful not to startle her. She didn’t open her eyes or react at all to his presence, she only kept shivering, lips pressed tightly together.
He settled down beside her, back pressed against the wall, and tugged his own blanket over the both of them. They were close enough that their shoulders barely brushed.
She shivered again, the extra blanket doing little to stop it. He tensed, watching the faint tremor run through her shoulders.
He shifted a fraction closer, careful not to overstep their fragile boundaries. Their sides pressed flush against each other now, and he hoped the warmth from his body would seep over to hers.
“Can’t sleep with your teeth chatterin’ like that,” he said, brushing it off with an air of indifference.
Hesitantly, she scooted closer to him like she wasn’t sure she was allowed. He didn’t move away, a part of him was glad she moved closer.
Her head brushed against his shoulder, her back sliding to fit snugly along his side. Slowly, she tucked her head under his chin, nuzzling into his neck, letting his warmth seep in.
Her reaction surprised him, she seemed unbothered by being this close to him. She must be freezing to curl up against him like this. He kept his expression neutral, but the faint shift of her weight, burying her head deeper into his neck made the corner of his mouth twitch upwards ever so slightly.
He wasn’t sure why he felt nervous and decided it was simply because he hasn’t shared a sleeping space since Barb. Heat filled his cheeks at the implication, not that this was anything like that.
Gradually, her shivering eased, replaced by a steady, calm that spread through the both of them in the glow of firelight. He stayed perfectly still, his own breathing shallow, nerves buzzing under her touch.
This was purely practical, he reminded himself.
He closed his eyes, focusing on her warm breath that tickled his neck. It was more comforting than he remembered and his eyes grew heavier.
He nearly jumped when a small hand curled around his sleeve and slid into his own, fingers lacing through his. He sat motionless, his heart thudding, unsure how to react.
A moment passed.
She shifted slightly, tilting her face just enough to press a soft lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. It was barely a whisper of touch but the suggestion that she was okay with them properly kissing sent a jolt racing through him. His mind went blank, and his heart seemed to skip a beat entirely.
It was a thank you. That’s all it could be, she couldn’t speak, he reasoned.
He swallowed hard and stared ahead at the fire like it held all the answers. He did his best to pretend his chest hadn’t gone painfully warm that left his heart pounding and the spot she kissed tingly.
Lucy leaned back against him, nuzzling under his chin, a content smile on her lips. Her breathing was even now, slow and steady.
He stayed awake a long time after that.
⸻
When he woke the next morning, Lucy was already moving. She was quietly packing their things with meticulous care, her movements precise. Cooper watched her, noting the way her brow creased in concentration, the light catching the stray strands of hair that escaped her ponytail. She looked much better this morning and he was hopeful she felt it too.
The second they stepped back onto the road, she launched into one of her endless streams of commentary. Today’s topic, why prickly bear cactus would make for an excellent jello cake flavor. Usually, he would have tuned her out halfway through but today, he found himself listening.
He’d missed this. He found himself leaning in a little closer, picking up each sentence, savoring the sound of her voice he’d gone a day without. He glanced over at her, she was talking with her usual fervor, her hands wild as she explained things in great detail. He was overwhelmed with the temptation to catch one and hold her hand again.
They hadn’t spoken about last night, but it settled in his chest like an ember burning steady in his heart. Every time Lucy laughed or launched into another tangent, it flickered a little hotter, and he found himself looking down at his boots with a bashful smile.
And if his own throat was starting to ache, well, he didn’t care, she was more than worth it.