[ she moves in closer to him and he breaths her in, the softness of her voice ringing out to him in tandem with the soothing guidance of her touch, planted palms framing him securely and steadily between them. with the brush of her nose, her breath fans against his lips, warm against the biting chill of the cold desert weather.

it's just you and me. and he believes it. nothing else needs to be real except this.

and for a moment, that's all he allows, not even taking a chance on speaking again until he knows for sure, until his heart slows down to something more comfortable. if his hands move, it's only to roll light caresses to the back of hers, thumb offering lazy circular strokes to the bone of her wrist.

(if i lose every other memory, just let me keep this, his mind briefly wanders.)

with a swallow, he finally parts his lips to speak again. ]

I've been seeing it more often again. Ever since we lost the town. [ he sighs, letting his breath wash over hers. ] I keep thinking about ... old man Branson. Way he lost everyone he cared about and survived, living in his guilt. Way he couldn't save anyone, so a part of him tried to forget it somehow.

[ quiet again, and then, ] What if — what if that's just me too? What if I can't save anyone and I just get stuck with the ghosts?