Chapter 27 Reeves
TWENTY-SEVEN
Reeves
The Strut: The signature footwork of the second line. It is not choreographed. It arrives in the body before the mind catches up.
"Goddamned pillow."
"What?"
"I was bringing you a pillow, and next thing I know, I'm jumping you. I blame it on the pillow."
The laugh starts in my belly before I can stop it. Low and surprised, but real. The first genuine laugh I've had since I got back to Louisiana.
She grins against my shoulder, and just like that, the careful weight between us shifts. Not gone, exactly. But lighter. Like we're allowed to be people instead of problems for a few minutes.
Her fingers brush over my shoulder again, not clinical this time. Just touching.
The weight of her moves over me like nothing’s changed. The curve of her body fits where it always did, her hair brushing my jaw, that same vanilla and citrus scent. Her breathing evens out before mine does, like it always used to.
This is dangerous territory. Not the sex. The way my body wants to keep her right here. The way, after we shave away all of the pain and time and distance, we are so easy together.
The house is dead quiet. Benjy’s room is maybe thirty feet away. I register it, the reality of where we are, what this is.
I reach for the navy blanket she brought me earlier that landed on the floor. My arm has to stretch, and the movement shifts us both. She makes a soft sound but doesn't pull away.
I shake the blanket out one-handed and pull it over her shoulders, tucking it around her without thinking about it. The motion is automatic. Muscle memory from a hundred nights like this.
She always gets cold after sex. At least, she used to.
The realization hits me sideways. I still know that about her. My hands still know exactly how to cover her so she won't shiver in five minutes.
“You winced,” she says quietly.
I glance down at her. “I did?”
“When you were over me.” Her voice stays soft, not calling it out so much as noticing it. “And again just now when you opened the blanket.”
I start to brush it off out of habit, but realize she's opening a door.
“It's that obvious, huh?" I rub my hand over my face. "Fuck. I know.”
Her fingers move up, resting lightly over my shoulder.
“You've always done that,” she murmurs. “You act like it’s nothing until it turns into a bigger issue you can’t ignore.”
I let out a slow breath, my head tipping back against the couch.
“I knew it was more than just a strain, but I thought if I didn't focus on it, it would go away. I was hoping it would heal like everything else,” I admit.
She goes quiet for a second, like she’s thinking through it.
“You don’t need me to tell you this, but stuff like that doesn’t fix itself. You keep compensating, and you’re going to make it worse, and possibly cause another injury on the other side.”
“Yeah,” I say after a second. “Guess I’m out of time on pretending it’ll fix itself. Occupational hazard.”
“Injury aside, the Navy looks good on you. You made the right move."
I don’t answer right away.
I glance down at her. “Yeah. It has been good for me.”
“You've been talking about the military and leaving New Orleans for as long as I've known you. I’m glad you did it.”
"It took losing you to finally do it."
That admission is substantial. The silence stretches out. It's not uncomfortable, exactly. Just heavy with all the history between us.
She tilts her head up to look at me. "I wouldn't say you lost me. You left, Reeves."
I exhale slowly. I did leave.
"We both said we couldn't keep breaking up, getting back together, and fighting about the same things over and over." I shift slightly, getting more comfortable. "You told me you were done."
"We always said that when we fought."
"True. But I knew it wasn't fair to you. I also knew I wasn't strong enough to stop putting you through that hell. Not unless I had no choice but to leave.”
"One hell of a diversion."
"It worked."
"Did it?"
Good point, as we lie together naked on her couch.
"For a while."
“SEALs, though? You really went all in on that."
Her question is simple but not casual. She's always been good at that. Asking the thing she actually wants to know without wrapping it in small talk.
"A lot of guys make it to BUD/S. Not many make it through." I pause, trying to find the right words. "I could’ve gone officer, taken a safer route. My father certainly would have preferred that."
“It’s so you to choose the hardest option."
"Yeah."
She's quiet for a minute, processing that. Her hand moves absently against my arm, and I realize she's doing it without thinking. The same way she used to touch me when we were talking about real things.
"What was training like?"
"Brutal. That’s the point. They just keep pushing until something gives. You get a few days in, and you stop thinking straight. That’s when most guys quit."
I think back to those months. The cold water, the sleep deprivation, the instructors whose job was to make us break.
"A lot of guys with something to prove don’t last. The ones who make it through usually have something they’re trying to outrun."
"What were you running from?"
You. Us. The way loving you scared the shit out of me.
"Myself, mostly."
She accepts that answer without pushing. That's new. The Charli I remember would have dug deeper, tried to fix whatever was broken in me.
The conversation settles into a rhythm I remember. Not performing for each other. Not trying to impress or defend. Just talking the way we used to when it was late and the rest of the world felt far away.
Her hand stills. "I'm really sorry about your dad."
Her voice goes softer.
I immediately tense up without meaning to. "Yeah. It’s been a long nine months."
"I still can’t believe what happened to him. So awful."
Most people don't push past the official line. They offer their condolences and change the subject. But Charli never took the easy route with difficult things.
"Ugly way to go. Especially him." Mugging is the official cause of death, but there's so much more to it than that. She doesn't need to know that a rival logistics company owner had him executed in front of his oldest son.
"I'm sorry, Reeves. Especially after losing your mom so young. It's not fair."
The mention of my mother hits different coming from her. She knew what losing Mom did to our family. She saw how it changed everything.
"We’re going there tonight?"
She doesn't try to comfort me with empty words. She just listens, the way she always did.
"I guess I just want to make sure you're okay? You've had a lot on your plate."
"I am. You know me."
"You're right, I do. That's why I'm concerned."
Fuck. She always could cut through my bullshit.
"I’m okay. My brothers have everything handled. Ridge stepped in.” I shrug. “I leave Friday. That's how we Stones do it."
She wants more from me, but that's all I can give. Because I'm so numb now, I do think I'm okay. I have an escape, and I couldn't deal if I didn't.
I think about Ridge's offer to come back and work for Stone Intermodal. There's no way in hell I could ever do that.
Her fingers trace a small circle around my belly button. "You mean that's how Reeves Stone does it."
I know what she's saying. I leave. I don't try to disagree because she's right.
"That’s why this scares me, Reeves. I don’t want Benjy getting attached, just for you to… leave."
I exhale and run a hand through my hair.
"I don't want to hurt him."
"I know that. But wanting something and doing it are different things."
True.
The conversation could spiral here. Back into old patterns, old arguments about my inability to commit. Instead, I ask the question that's been sitting at the front of my skull since yesterday.
"Tell me about him. What's he like when it's just regular life?"
She shifts slightly, and she's notably lighter. I can tell that talking about Benjy is her happy place.
"He's curious about everything, always asking how things work. Last week, he took apart a flashlight to see where the light comes from."
That reminds me of myself. I loved tinkering and understanding how things are put together.
Her voice gets softer, warmer. "He's obsessed with trucks right now. Has been for months. And water. Any kind of water. Puddles, the bathtub, the ocean."
"What's school like for him? Does he like it?"
"He loves it. His teacher says he's a natural leader, but quiet about it. And he's a protector, just like you."
Hearing her say that feels like a compliment, even if she didn’t mean it that way. I know she didn't mean it that way, and I hate that I'm making it about me. But I can't help but feel pride knowing my son has a trait she associates with me.
"Does he have friends?"
"A few. There's a kid named Paolo who lives down the street. They're thick as thieves. And a girl named Emma at school who shares her crackers with him at snack time."
I remember him mentioning Paolo.
I can picture him. Small hands trading goldfish crackers, serious face concentrating on some elaborate game only five-year-olds understand.
"What does he like to do when he gets home from school?"
"Depends. Sometimes he helps Mom in the kitchen. Sometimes he builds things with Dad in the garage. He's obsessed with going up in his treehouse right now."
I absorb all of this, imagining his life and how he's growing. Pride swells in me.
"He's a lucky kid. You're doing an amazing job."
She doesn't say anything back. She doesn't have to. I just hope she knows how grateful I am for her and everything she's done alone for the child we created together.
We fall quiet after that. Not the heavy kind of quiet from earlier. This is easier, like before Benjy, before we blew it all up.
Her breathing starts to even out, and her hand goes still against my chest.
I look down at her face, half hidden by her hair. Her eyes are closed, and the tension around her mouth has smoothed away.
She’s falling asleep.
I should wake her and send her to her own bed, where she'll sleep more comfortably. But I want her here with me. She’s warm, her soft skin against mine, and I can’t remember the last time things were this steady.
So I don’t.
Everything finally goes still. This couch. This woman. This house with a five-year-old asleep down the hall.
My son.
Those words together still don't fully make sense in my brain. But lying here, surrounded by the life Charli built without me, it’s harder to pretend it isn’t real.
Benjy’s drawings on the refrigerator. His shoes by the front door. The way he looked at me this morning, like I was someone worth showing things to.
I pull the blanket higher over her shoulders. She shifts closer without waking, her hand sliding against my chest like it belongs there.
Because it does.
This is what she meant. Not a visit. Not a few days. This.
I know what Friday means. I know what comes after that: a flight, a deployment, months where this doesn’t exist. I’ve built my life around that kind of leaving, around not staying long enough for anything to matter this much.
But everything that's happened since Thursday changes things.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to her breathing even out against me, and for the first time since I walked back into this house, I let the thought come all the way through.
I don’t have a plan. Friday isn’t optional. But what comes after… that’s still mine to decide.
My hand moves over her shoulder slowly, like I’m testing the weight of it. She leans into me without waking, trusting in a way she shouldn’t.
I tighten my arm around her anyway, not because I’ve decided anything, but because I’m not ready to let go.