“You need a special blanket with wing slots,” I say.

“Like a Snuggie for demons.”

“Or angels. Do your shoulders get cold?”

He shakes his head and stretches his right wing out, wrapping it snugly around us. It reminds me of Utah, of the back of Shepard’s truck.

“It’s only a few more days,” he says. “Then I can pull the covers up all the way. I’ll be able to wear normal clothes again—I’m gonna buy myself a leather jacket to celebrate.”

“Very cool,” I say. “You’ll look like Danny Zuko. Or a bad boy celebrity chef.”

“I know you’re making fun of me, but I am going to look really cool…” He shifts his wing back behind him and wraps his arm around me instead. I find a way to slide one arm under his neck. We’re breathing each other’s air. It’s a little claustrophobic.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks softly.

“No,” I whisper.

“Me neither.”

“But don’t move,” I say. “Not yet.”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

I wake up, and my right arm is dead. No blood in it at all. I pull it out from under Simon, and roll over, shaking it out. My throat is on fire, I ignore it.

I wake up, and the room is blood red.

The sun is shining, and Simon’s wing is spread over my head.

I wake up, and the room is pink. The sun is setting. Simon’s wings are behind him, his arm is around me. He’s pulled me in tight, my back to his chest, our hips nested together. He’s breathing heavily on my neck. I can’t remember ever being this warm.

Sleep finger-walks up the back of my skull and pulls me under again.

I wake up, and it’s dark. Simon’s arm is around me. My back is against his chest. His breath is harsh and uneven on my neck. He’s awake.

“Simon?”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough.

“What time is it?”

“Don’t know,” he says into my hair. “Didn’t want to move.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the middle of the day.”

“Maybe not.” He tucks his hand under my ribs and pulls me even more snugly against him. He’s rubbing his face into the back of my head. “You smell so good, Baz…”

I close my eyes. I let him move me.

“So good,” he says, pushing my head forward. “I can’t get enough of it. I can’t swallow it. And it … it doesn’t help to hold my breath…”

He inhales again. Unsteadily. Then he’s biting my scalp, his mouth wide and wet in the hair above my neck. “So good…” I think he says. “So good.”

He bites right at my hairline. He’s found the scar there before, stretched and faded. “If it were me,” he rasps, “if I were you…”