Truman was still gasping for air and couldn’t respond.

“Truman? Can you not breathe? Shit, let me call someone.”

Now he sounded panicked.

Truman shook his head and grabbed for Ash’s arm.

“No, no, I’m okay,” he gasped.

“You sound really bad. Maybe you broke a rib or punctured a lung. Your breathing—”

Truman snort-gasped in mortified laughter. “I’m fine. Just. Out of. Shape.”

Finally able to stand, Truman let Ash help him up. Concern etched lines on Ash’s handsome face, deep enough that Truman could tell they were habitual. Ash couldn’t be more than a year or two older than him, but already he’d had so much occasion to worry.

Ash slung an arm around his waist and helped him across the street and into Thorn, even though Truman could’ve made it fine on his own. Ash smelled like woods and flowers, and Truman wanted to press his face to Ash’s broad chest and breathe him in. But he didn’t, because he was sweaty and breathless and covered in slush and probably stank.

The moment the door opened, Bruce padded over and nosed in Truman’s crotch. Truman chose to take it as friendly concern.

“Here, come with me,” Ash said, and it took Truman a moment to realize Ash was speaking to him and not the dog.

“Oh, me. Okay.”

He trailed after Ash through the area behind the desk to a staircase. At the top, Ash opened the door to an apartment.

It was spare but neat and had a calm, if faded, aesthetic that reminded Truman of beach glass blasted smooth by moody waves and capricious sun.

He was led to the middle of the living room, gentle light spilling through the thin blue curtains, and Ash encouraged his jacket off. Ash’s hands moved over him with gentle precision—checking for damage and resigned to finding it.

“I’m really fine,” Truman assured him. “Embarrassed mostly.”

“I didn’t know you were a runner.”

“Uh, I hope after what you saw you now know that I am not.”

“I just saw you slip.”

Ash still had one hand on his elbow, like he didn’t want to break contact.