Marlowe
Rain hammered the canvas above us with a rhythm that should have been soothing and instead felt like a countdown, and I sat as close to my own edge of the small tent as physically possible, arms wrapped around my knees, doing an admirable job of pretending this was a perfectly normal way to spend an evening.
"You can move closer to the fire side," King said, from his own careful distance. "I'm not going to bite."
"Didn't think you would."
"Then why are you sitting like you're bracing for an earthquake?"
"I'm cold."
"You'd be less cold if you weren't determined to freeze on principle." He shifted, just slightly, enough to close a foot of the distance between us without making it a whole production, and I let him, mostly because arguing about proximity in a two-person tent felt
