He bent down, bracing one hand on his knee and reaching the other toward me.
"It's okay," he said, slightly out of breath but completely steady. His voice washed over me like warm water. "I'm here."
I stared at his hand.
His fingers were long, his knuckles sharply defined. A smear of blood stained his fingertips. One cuff button was missing, and his sleeve had been rolled twice to reveal a strong forearm.
I seized his hand. He pulled me to my feet, and I threw myself into his arms, sobbing.
His chest was hard, and his shirt buttons pressed into my cheek. Then his familiar scent wrapped around me—pine, faint tobacco, and the cool night air.
I clutched the back of his shirt until my knuckles turned white. My entire body shook uncontrollably. My knees trembled, my shoulders quaked, and
