57. Harmony
Harmony
The nurse’s voice is gentle, almost reverent, as she wheels in the discharge papers.
“You’re free to go, Harmony.”
Free.
The word tastes foreign, like something stolen, like something that doesn’t belong to people like her. I stare at the crisp white sheets in her lap, pen trembling between my fingers. My wound still aches, stitched tight beneath my rib cage, a brutal reminder that freedom doesn’t come without pain.
Reese stands in the corner, arms folded over his chest, eyes on her like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Like I’m some kind of dream he’s still scared to believe in.
I sign.
One stroke at a time.
And just like that, I’m no longer a patient. I’m just a woman who lived through Hell and walked out on the other side.
Barely.
The nurse smiles. “Wheelchairs are mandatory, hospital policy.”
I glare. “I can walk.”
Re ese moves forward before the nurse can argue. “I’ve got her.”
With one arm carefully placed beneath my knees and the other around my back, he lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. My body protests, the pain sharp and instant; but I bite it back, burying my face in his chest.
“I could’ve walked,” I mutter against his shirt.
“You’ve been bleeding for a week,” he says. “You don’t get to argue with me yet.”
I sigh and let myself be carried.
The sun is too bright.
Everything is too loud.
Cars honk in the distance. Someone’s playing music from a cracked speaker. The world has moved on—like it didn’t end three times in the last month. Like people didn’t die. Like Damien didn’t shatter everything and nearly take me with him.
Reese opens the passenger door of his black SUV and eases me into the seat with a care that makes my chest ache. He buckles me in like I might break in his hands.
Maybe I already have.
He walks around to the driver’s side, slides in, and starts the engine. The radio’s off. The silence is thicker than blood.
We drive for twenty minutes before I speak.
“You cleaned the truck.”
He glances at me, brow furrowing.
“I remember it being dirtier,” I explain.
Reese exhales. “I washed it the day I thought I lost you.”
I turn to look out the window. My throat burns.
“I didn’t know if I was washing off blood or hope.”
My fingers curl around the seat belt. I don’t know how to answer that. So I don’t. I just let the silence stretch.
His house is on the edge of town. A single-story ranch with tall hedges and a wraparound porch. The gravel drive crunches beneath the tires as he pulls in. It’s the kind of place I never thought Reese would live.
Too quiet.
Too… permanent.
“I bought it after I gave you the motel card,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “Didn’t think I’d ever let anyone see it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why now?”
He kills the engine. “Because you deserve somewhere safe.”
The inside smells like cedar and soap. Clean, organized, lived-in. His boots are by the door, lined up with militant precision. A few photos sit on the mantel—Reese with a dog, Reese in uniform, Reese beside Dante and Lucien years ago, all of them younger, not yet haunted.
He guides me to the couch, where I sink into the cushions with a groan. The pain medication is fading, leaving a dull throb in its wake.
“Do you want water? Food?” he asks.
“Water first. Then food. Then… maybe a nap.”
He chuckles. “I can handle that.”
As he walks into the kitchen, I glance around the room. There’s a blanket folded on the armchair. A lamp with a cracked shade. A bookshelf lined with titles I wouldn’t have expected—classics, crime novels, even a few psychology books.
Reese is a puzzle I’ve only just begun to solve.
He returns with a glass of water, kneels beside me, and holds it out. I take it, our fingers brushing. It’s such a simple thing, but my breath hitches anyway.
“I don’t know how to be here,” I admit. “In a house. With… you.”
His eyes soften. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”
After I eat—toast, eggs, and fruit, all cut carefully by Reese’s steady hands—he helps me to the bathroom. I insist on going alone.
It ’s my first time seeing myself in a mirror in days.
My face is pale, my eyes ringed in purple, my lips cracked. The scar below my ribs is angry and red, still fresh. I touch it with tentative fingers.
I’m alive.
That should be enough.
When I emerge, Reese has set up the guest room. Fresh sheets. Fluffed pillows. A heating pad is plugged in on the nightstand.
I pause in the doorway.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he says.
I climb into bed, exhaling slowly as my body sinks into the mattress. Reese stands in the doorway, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay.
“Will you sit with me?” I ask quietly.
He does.
We don’t speak for a long time.
His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, and we sit like that, just breathing.
“I was scared you’d hate me,” I whisper.
“I never could.”
“You let Damien live—for a while.”
Reese flinches.
“I know why,” I add before he can speak. “You had a deal with Dante. You wanted to get me out. You needed time.”
“I also needed to make it right,” he says. “And I did. He’s gone, Harmony. He can’t touch you again.”
I squeeze his hand.
“But the memories still can,” I say.
“I’ll help you fight them,” he promises.
“Even if I’m never whole?”
“You’re already more than that.”
I smile faintly and close my eyes.
* * *
The next morning, the air smells like bacon and rain.
I shuffle into the kitchen, wrapped in one of Reese’s shirts, oversized and worn. He’s at the stove, flipping eggs. When he turns and sees me, his entire face softens.
“You slept twelve hours.”
“I could sleep twelve more.”
“You don’t have to do anything today,” he says. “Just heal.”
I walk over and steal a piece of bacon from the plate.
“I was thinking,” I say between bites, “about what comes next.”
Reese raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t want marriage,” I say. “Or kids. Or some white-picket-fence fantasy. I just want… peace. Days like this. Safety. You. I meant it all in the hospital. I just want you.”
His breath catches. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to give you.”
I reach for his hand.
“Then give me today,” I say. “Just this.”
“I’ll give you every today I’ve got left.”
We eat together at the table, the storm tapping at the windows like a lullaby. Reese tells me about a tree in the backyard that used to drop apples the size of my fist. I tell him about a dream I had where he painted my name across the sky.
We don’t talk about Damien.
Not yet.
Some wounds are better whispered about in the dark, when the world can’t hear them break.
When I stand to rinse my plate, Reese pulls me into a hug. Not rushed . Not lustful.
Just… quiet.
My head rests on his chest.
His fingers curl into my hair.
“I love you,” he says.
I don’t flinch.
I just nod.
“I know.”