Chapter 8
BLAKE
The only sound in the cab is the rhythmic thwack-hiss of the wipers fighting the February drizzle.
I keep my eyes on the wet pavement, but my peripheral vision is locked on Reid. He’s staring out the passenger window, his forehead resting against the glass, breath fogging the pane. He hasn't said a word since we watched Laine walk away down the street, clutching her purse like a shield.
My hands are tight on the wheel. Too tight. I force my fingers to relax, one by one, but the tension just migrates to my jaw.
Checking the parking lot.
That’s the part that’s stuck in my throat like a splinter. Laine, who has lived in war zones, who handles trauma patients without flinching, was checking the parking lot before she walked to her car because she was afraid of Reid.
I pull the truck into our driveway. I kill the engine. The silence rushes in, heavy and damp.
Reid reaches for the door handle.
"Don't," I say.
He freezes. His hand drops. He doesn't look at me.
"You fucking scared her," I say. It’s not a question.
"Yeah."
"I haven't seen you like that since after Jared died. With that woman."
Reid flinches. It’s small, just a tightening of the muscles in his neck, but I see it.
"I know," Reid says quietly.
"I thought we were past that." I turn in my seat, the leather creaking. "I thought you were past that."
"But it was different this time," Reid continues, voice rough. "When Jared died, you were there. You dragged me out. You stayed." He swallows hard. "This time you were both gone. And every time I saw a report about an IED, I thought—" His voice cracks. He doesn't finish.
The cold spreads through my chest. I left him alone. Both anchors gone at once. I did to him exactly what losing Jared did.
"I left you the same way we lost Jared." The words taste like poison. "Just gone."
"Yeah." Reid's jaw tightens. "You did."
The silence sits heavy between us. Rain drums on the roof.
"And I still stopped," Reid says finally. "Joyce told me what I was doing and I heard her. I stopped on my own. Because you weren't coming back to save me this time."
I study him. He’s right. The last time, seven years ago, I had to physically intervene to stop the spiral. This time, he pulled the brake himself. Late, yeah. Too late for Laine’s peace of mind. But he did it.
"Joyce is a scary woman," I concede.
"She is." Reid lets out a breath that ghosts in the cold air. "But it wasn't just fear of Joyce. I realized I was hurting Laine. And that woke me up."
I nod slowly. The anger is still there, a low hum in my chest, but the sharp edge of it is dulling. He’s not the same kid who fell apart after Jared. He’s damaged, sure. We both are. But he’s trying to bear the weight of it differently.
"You can't go dark like that again," I say. "Not with her. Not if you want a chance in hell of fixing this."
"I won't. I'm doing the work. Therapy. Meetings. The whole nine yards."
"Good."
We sit in the silence for another minute. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not volatile anymore. It’s just the heavy, wet reality of February in Oregon.
"She looked at you," Reid says suddenly.
I look out the windshield at the garage door. The paint is peeling. "She looked at both of us."
"Not like that." Reid shifts in his seat. "When you were talking about your feelings. When you admitted... what you admitted."
"She was surprised, Reid. She didn't know I was going to say it out loud." It was fucking selfish. But it's the last time I'll ever get to say those words to her, and I wanted to look into her eyes when I did it.
"It wasn't surprise." Reid shakes his head. "I know Laine. I know every expression she has. When she looks at me right now, she sees the past. She sees the hurt. But when she looked at you today... she saw something else. Something different."
"She sees a problem," I say flatly. "She sees the guy who was cruel to her. The guy who broke up her happy home."
"Maybe." Reid doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe she—"
"Don't." I open my door, letting the cold air rush into the cab. "Don't do that. You're the one she wants a future with. You're the one she's willing to consider forgiving. I'm just the demo crew."
"Blake—"
"Let's get the truck unloaded."
I step out into the rain before he can argue.
The cold bites through my flannel shirt, grounding me.
It's cold enough for a coat, but I spent three months in the heat and I can't get enough of the cold.
I walk to the back of the truck and drop the tailgate with a metallic clang that echoes off the wet pavement.
Reid joins me a second later. He grabs a stack of 2x4s, hoisting them onto his shoulder. I grab the box of insulation.
We walk into the garage. Freezing. The concrete slab throwing cold up through my boots, the whole place smelling like dust and nothing. It's a mess. Half-finished project most people would've bailed on a long time ago.
But we don't bail.
Reid stacks the lumber, checking each board for warps, his movements steady. Precise. He's getting better. Learning to stand without leaning his whole weight on me.
But he's not there yet.
And that's the thing, isn't it. That's the thing I can't get around no matter how many times I try to think my way out of it.
Laine. The way she looked in that hardware store. Capable. Fierce. Building a life with her own two hands. I love her. God, I love her. And because I love her, I can't let Reid crumble again. I have to stay. I have to be the studs in the wall, the joists in the floor. Hidden. Structural. Necessary.
Even if it means I never get to be the one who lives in the house.