Nixon’s POV
"Go back to sleep, Nixon," the dark room seemed to whisper, but my own mind was a louder enemy.
I lay flat on my back and stared at the white ceiling. Sleep was a joke. My muscles burned from the long run in the woods, yet my brain refused to shut down. Outside the small window, the moon cut a sharp silver line right across the floorboards.
Beside me, Scout shifted. Her breathing was low and steady. The heavy tension that usually filled the air between us had finally faded when she closed her eyes hours ago. I rolled my head to the side to look at her shape in the dark. She was curled tight like a ball, her back turned completely toward me. The thick wool blanket had slipped off her bare shoulder.
Without thinking, I reached out. My fingers caught the edge of the cloth and
