58. Reese
Reese
I watch her sleep.
It’s the only thing I know how to do right now.
The soft rise and fall of her chest is steady, rhythmic—proof that she’s still here. Still breathing. Still mine, if only for tonight.
She’s curled up in my bed, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting lightly on the gauze taped to her side. Her hospital bracelet is still on, hanging loosely against her wrist. I should cut it off. I will. But not yet. Not until I can fully believe she’s out for good. That she’s staying.
The house is silent, except for the sound of the fan spinning overhead and the occasional gust of wind pushing against the old windowpane.
Everything else—the chaos, the pain, the years of rot, trailing behind both of us like ghosts—feels suspended.
For once, the quiet doesn’t terrify me. It feels earned.
I move around the room quietly, picking up the fresh towels I laid out, adjusting the pillows she’s not even using, then finally returning to my chair beside the bed.
I sit.
And I watch.
Sh e’s thinner than I remember. Pale too. Her lips are cracked, and her skin still has that strange hospital sterility to it, like she hasn’t quite re-entered the world. Her hair’s tangled against the pillow, and her lashes twitch every now and then like she’s dreaming.
God, she’s beautiful.
Not in that soft, delicate kind of way. No—Harmony is beautiful like a fucking blade. Sharp. Gleaming. Dangerous.
She’s the kind of girl people try to cage, try to tame. But the ones who get too close always end up bleeding.
And I never minded the blood.
Her body shifts slightly, and a low whimper escapes her throat. I’m on my feet before I even think about it, crouching beside her, brushing a hand gently through her hair.
“Shh,” I whisper. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Her eyes flutter open slowly. Those soft irises settle on mine, sleepy and confused, and then…
Recognition.
Relief.
“Reese,” she breathes, voice hoarse.
“Hey,” I murmur, smiling like I haven’t smiled in years. “Welcome back.”
She tries to sit up, wincing as the pain in her side reminds her she’s still healing. I help her, sliding an arm around her back, adjusting the pillows so she can rest without straining. Her body leans into mine without hesitation, and I feel her warmth settle into my bones like it belongs there.
“Did I sleep long?” she asks, throat scratchy.
“Few hours,” I say. “You needed it.”
She looks down at her hands. “I had a dream I was still in the hospital. But it was quiet. You were there.”
“I never left.”
Sh e leans her head back against the headboard, exhaling slowly. “Feels real now.”
“It is.”
I reach over to the tray I set up earlier and hand her a glass of water. She sips carefully, then presses the cool rim to her forehead, letting it rest there for a second before setting it down.
“Reese…”
I glance at her.
“Why are you doing this?”
There’s no accusation in her voice. Just confusion. Worry. That deep, ingrained sense of reservedness that she carries like a second skin.
“I think the better question is, why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I’m broken,” she says. “Because I ran. Because I shot him. Because—”
“Because you survived,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I meant. “You did what you had to do. And I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life.”
She looks down, blinking hard. “It doesn’t feel brave.”
“No,” I say, “but it was.”
She falls quiet again, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.
I hate seeing her like this—unsure of herself, afraid to take up space. Harmony was always fire. Even when she was scared, she burned. But Damien tried to extinguish that light for so long. It makes me want to set the fucking world on fire in return.
“I made you something,” I say gently.
She looks up. “What?”
“Soup,” I reply with a small grin. “It’s probably cold now, but…”
Her lips twitch into a faint smile. “You cook?”
“I survive. Get your ass stabbed once or twice, and you learn real quick not to rely on takeout.”
He r laugh is so soft, so fleeting, I almost miss it. But it’s there. And it’s mine.
I go heat up the soup while she shifts on the bed. By the time I bring it back in, she’s sitting upright, legs curled beneath her, blanket still pulled around her shoulders.
I place the tray over her lap. “It’s nothing fancy. Chicken and rice. But it’s warm.”
She takes the spoon and dips it into the bowl. Her hand shakes a little, and I resist the urge to help—knowing she needs to do this herself. She eats in slow, careful bites, and I sit across from her, not saying anything, just watching. Just being here.
When she finishes, she leans back, eyes glassy. “That was the best thing I’ve eaten in months.”
I take the tray and set it aside. “Glad to hear it. You’ll be eating real food every day from now on. No more surviving off stale crackers and fear.”
She reaches for my hand, fingers cold against mine. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“About what?”
“ Me. Us. This.”
I nod slowly. “I’m not going anywhere, Harmony.”
We sit like that for a long while, fingers intertwined, silence stretching between us. But it’s not empty. It’s warm. Heavy with unspoken things.
She looks down at our hands. “You think I’m perfect, don’t you?”
“No,” I say softly. “I know you’re not.”
She looks up, startled.
“And that’s what makes you perfect.”
Her mouth parts slightly. “Explain.”
“You’ve been through Hell. You’ve made mistakes. You’ve been used, broken, thrown away—and still, you fight. You save people. You love people . You make them believe there’s something worth fighting for. That’s not perfection, Harmony. That’s fucking goddamn strength.”
Tears pool in her eyes, and I wipe them away with my thumb.
“You’re not a princess,” I whisper. “You’re a fucking storm.”
She leans forward, head resting on my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her as tightly as I can without hurting her.
And in that moment, I swear I’d kill for her all over again.
Burn cities.
Trade my soul.
Because she’s worth it.
Every bruise.
Every broken bone.
Every sleepless night.
I don’t tell her any of that. Not tonight.
But I will.
Soon.
For now, I hold her until she falls asleep in my arms again.
And I let myself believe—for the first time in years—that maybe I’m allowed to have something good. Something real.
Her.
* * *
She stirs in my arms.
A slow breath against my throat. Then another. Her lips brush my skin as she shifts slightly, murmuring something unintelligible. Her fingers curl into my shirt, clinging to me like I’m the last solid thing in a crumbling world.
“Harmony,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You okay?”
She nods against my chest, her voice quiet. “Mm hmm.”
Bu t she doesn’t pull away.
Her hand trails lower, over my ribs, down my side. There’s no urgency to it—just exploration. Like she’s reminding herself I’m real. Like she needs the contact as much as I do.
Her body is still so warm. Fragile and strong all at once. She feels like something I was never meant to hold, but now that I am—I’d burn the world to keep it in my hands.
“What are you thinking about?” She asks softly, lifting her eyes to mine.
“You.”
She smiles. A rare, slow smile that starts with her mouth but lands in her eyes.
“You don’t have to handle me like glass,” she murmurs.
“You just got out of the hospital,” I say.
“I’m still alive.”
“I know.”
Her fingers graze the hem of my shirt. “Then don’t treat me like I’m broken. Not right now.”
I suck in a breath. Her touch isn’t desperate—it’s deliberate. Sure. And mine? It’s already trembling with the restraint I’ve been forcing on myself for weeks.
“Are you sure?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods once. “I need to feel something real.”
I hesitate for half a second longer.
Then I kiss her.
It’s not soft.
It’s not cautious.
It’s a fuse catching fire.
Her hands bury into my hair, pulling me closer, and I press her into the mattress with a groan, my weight resting carefully above her, terrified of hurting her and equally terrified of stopping.
He r mouth opens beneath mine, and I drink her in, devour her like I’ve been starved for years, and she’s the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation. Her tongue brushes mine, and my whole body locks up.
Jesus.
She’s still recovering. Still bruised. And yet, when she arches against me, moaning into my mouth, all I want to do is tear this world down brick by brick so she never has to be afraid again.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper into her skin as I kiss her neck, her collarbone, every inch I can touch without making her wince. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
She shudders under me. “Only if you stop.”
My hand slides beneath the oversized hoodie she’s wearing—mine, actually—and I groan when I feel that she’s not wearing anything underneath. I slide up the warm material and observe her perfect fucking body.
Her skin is soft. Warm—Alive.
I drag my mouth down her chest, carefully, and I suck in her perfect nipple. She gasps and threads her fingers into my hair. Her hips lift to meet mine, and I press down just enough to let her feel the weight of me, the way I’m already rock hard and barely holding it together.
Her legs fall open and I settle between them, still kissing her, still reverent.
“You’re perfect,” I whisper against her breast.
“No,” she breathes, “I’m just yours.”
That undoes me.
Completely.
I slide the hoodie off her and drink in the sight—her body marked, healing, beautiful.
I kiss every scar I can see, every place he ever touched that I want to reclaim.
Not to erase. No, I’ll never pretend her past didn’t happen.
But I’ll rewrite it—with pleasure, with safety, with s omething honest.
When I finally slip inside her, slow and careful, she gasps and arches into me like it’s the only thing she’s been waiting for. I swear I see stars.
She grips onto me, legs wrapping around my waist, and we move together—slow, deep, desperate.
Her eyes never leave mine.
Neither of us speaks much. We don’t need to. Everything is said in touch, in breath, in the rhythm of our bodies colliding in that dark, quiet bedroom.
And when she cums, soft and sudden, with a whimper muffled into my shoulder—I follow seconds later, unable to stop, completely undone by the feel of her wrapped around me, trusting me, choosing me.
After, I hold her close, burying my face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like she’s air and I’ve been drowning.
She whispers, “Stay.”
I kiss her temple. “Always.”
And I mean it.
For the first time in my life, I mean every single word.