“I’m fine.” Reagan looked up at him. He was an inch or two taller than her. Not very tall. “That could have been your neck,” she said. “That was so stupid.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“God damn it,” Reagan said. Her heart was still pounding.

Mason looked worried. There was snow on his glasses, and his mask had fallen below his nose. He was holding her arm. “I’m sorry, okay? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Reagan said. “I’m just . . .”

Mason was holding her arm. He was standing right next to her. She’d put herself this close to him, and she wasn’t even wearing a mask—where was her mask? He was so close, she could see his chest moving.

He reached up, slowly, with his free hand, and tugged his mask back into place over his nose.

Reagan watched him through the fog of her own breath.

Then she reached up, with her own free hand, to touch his cloth-covered cheek.

He didn’t move away.

She pulled his mask down. Slowly. Deliberately. Under his soft chin.

Mason watched her face. He wasn’t smiling, but she could still see his two front teeth.

Reagan made a fist in the suede collar of his coat and pulled herself closer to him.

His head dipped forward, more fiercely than she was expecting, to kiss her.

She closed her eyes and just let it happen for a few seconds—he was kissing her. He was in her space. Past her perimeter. This was the second person to touch her today. The second person in ten months. (If Reagan had known in February what was coming, she would have thrown her body into more arms.) (She didn’t need people the way other people needed people, but she still needed . . . something.) Mason squeezed her arm. She felt herself waking up. She pulled hard on his collar and kissed him hungrily—he tasted green. God. God damn it. He wrapped his arm around her waist and held her even closer. They were both wearing thick coats. Reagan was still wearing her ankle boots. Her feet were drenched. That deer was probably long gone. God damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

Mason pulled his mouth away. “Hey,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

Reagan was fine.

“Reagan . . .”

She was fine. She was alive. She was lucky.

“You’re crying,” he said, loosening his arm, letting go of her elbow. “I’m sorry . . .”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s not . . .” She didn’t have the rest of that sentence. She was at a loss for everything. Mason was just standing there, with Reagan’s hand holding his collar. She pushed her face into his shoulder.

“All right,” he said, touching her back again gently. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. It maybe never would be. Reagan was crying like . . . like she was someone else. Someone she’d judge too harshly to pity.