Lyme
Their first cold, snowy day, Rokia heads out to the garage early, before Lyme’s awake. Comes in later, wraps blue-tinged fingers around a cup of tea, curls next to the radiator with a blanket pulled close around her.
She’s starting to get back up, setting down her mug, unwrapping herself, when Lyme snaps. “Sit your ass back down,” she says, grabbing the mug off the floor, heading toward the kitchen to refill it. “There’s nothing out there that can’t wait ‘till it’s warmer.”
The kid’s still standing, glaring, when Lyme comes back. But Rokia takes the mug, her fingers still icy when they brush Lyme’s. A moment’s hesitation, and she sits, folding herself small and pulling the blanket back around her shoulders.
She buries her nose in the steam from the tea and won’t meet Lyme’s eyes.