The Muse and the Anchor

The cold seeped through the thin layers of our borrowed blankets, a damp, persistent chill that clung to bone and spirit. Dawn, a bruised and reluctant thing, began to paint the sky in shades of grey and sickly yellow. Beside me, Tabatha stirred, a low murmur escaping her lips, a sound that was both a sigh and a prayer. I tightened my arm around her, pulling her closer, her warmth a small, defiant sun against the encroaching night.

“You awake, my love?” I whispered, my voice raspy from the dry air and the dust that seemed to have become a permanent resident in my lungs.

She burrowed deeper into my side, her breath warm against my neck. “Always. Especially when you’re holding me.” Her voice, even in its sleep-hazed softness, carried that familiar spark, the undercurrent of fire that always made my heart beat a little faster.