The air in the pocket was turning stale.
Every breath tasted like chalk and copper. The subterranean cold of the collapsed transit hub seeped through the cracked concrete, biting directly into Amara's bones.
She sat huddled in the dark, her injured leg stretched out stiffly in front of her. The bandage Arthur had applied was already soaked through, the wet heat of her own blood sticking to her skin. Her teeth clicked together in a rapid, uncontrollable rhythm.
She shifted across the gravel, pressing her shoulder firmly against Arthur's arm.
He was radiating heat like a furnace, a sharp contrast to the freezing dampness of the ruins. Amara curled her fingers into the fabric of his sleeve, drawing her knees up to preserve whatever core temperature she had left.
Arthur sat with his head resting against the stone wall, his breathing slow and regulated. He let her lean into his space, absorbing the warmth, completely unbothered by her sudden proximity.
