Chapter 22
LAINE
Ichange outfits three times before Blake arrives.
The first one's too casual — jeans and a sweater that says "I'm not trying." The second's too dressy, like I'm compensating for something. The third lands somewhere in the middle: a soft green blouse that brings out my eyes, dark jeans, boots with a low heel. Nice but not trying too hard.
I'm being ridiculous. This is Blake. I've seen him covered in sawdust and smelling like wood stain. I've watched him nearly pass out at the sight of an infected wound. I've kissed him twice now.
But this is different. This is a date. An actual, intentional, just-the-two-of-us date.
I'm going on a date with my ex-maybe-current-boyfriend's best friend. That's not confusing at all.
No wonder I'm a mess. Anyone would be. If I don't get my head on straight, I'm going to ruin this before it starts.
And I really, really don't want to ruin this.
The buzzer rings at exactly seven. Of course he's punctual.
I hit the button to let him in, then take a breath. Smooth my hands down my jeans. Check my reflection one more time in the hall mirror — mascara hasn't smudged, hair still doing that thing I spent twenty minutes convincing it to do. Good enough. Better than good enough. Stop stalling.
Then the soft knock.
Yep, giant hairy moths are jumping around in my stomach.
Blake stands in the hallway, and for a second I just — stop.
He's wearing a dark blue button-down I've never seen before, sleeves rolled to the elbows the way he always does, like he can't quite commit to looking formal.
His hair is still damp at the edges, like he showered recently and couldn't be bothered to fully dry it.
He's holding flowers. Actual flowers — a small bunch of something purple and wild-looking, not the stiff grocery store roses that scream I panicked at the last minute.
Also scowling at me.
"You didn't even check it was me before you buzzed me up, Laine. That's not fucking safe."
Not exactly how I was expecting to start off the night.
I want to argue with him, that Eugene's safe, and I knew he was coming.
That I wasn't in any danger. But he looks like that's exactly what he wants me to do.
"I've lived in some rough places, and I would have been pretty careful there.
But you're right. I should have checked. "
He opens his mouth. Closes it. "I — fuck. Okay." He clears his throat, glancing down at his hands, then giving me a nervous smile. "Hey," he says, and his voice has that rough edge to it.
"Hey yourself." He's adorable. Am I a little proud I threw him off his game? Yeah, totally.
He holds out the flowers like he's not entirely sure what to do with his hands now that I've answered the door. "These are, uh. The woman at the shop said they were called something, but I already forgot. They reminded me of —" He stops. Clears his throat. "They're purple. You like purple."
I take them, and something warm blooms behind my ribs. He noticed. Of course he noticed — Blake notices everything, files it away in that quiet, observant way of his. But the fact that he remembered, that he turned that observation into this small, tangible thing...
"They're beautiful," I say, and mean it. "Let me put them in water. Come in?"
His shoulders drop slightly. Like he was braced for rejection.
"Blake." I wait until he meets my eyes. "I'm glad you're here."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close. "Good. That's — good."
I find a glass for the flowers, fill it with water, set them on my kitchen counter. When I turn back, Blake's watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready."
His hand finds the small of my back as we walk to his truck. Light pressure, guiding without pushing. I let myself appreciate it instead of analyzing it. The warmth of his palm through my blouse. The steadiness of his presence beside me.
This feels safe. The thought catches me off guard. I've spent so many years being the competent one, the capable one, the one who handles things. With Blake, I can just... let someone else be solid for a minute.
Reid makes me feel safe too. But it's different. Not better or worse, just — different. Reid's safety is warm and bright, like standing in sunlight. Blake's is quieter. Like a wall at your back.
And now I'm comparing them. Which is exactly what I told myself I wouldn't do.
Stop it. Just be here. Be on this date. With this person.
Blake opens the passenger door for me. Old-fashioned. Sweet.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he climbs in the driver's side.
"Place called The Willow. Small, quiet. You'll like it."
We drive through the city as sunset paints everything amber and rose. Blake's hands are relaxed on the steering wheel, but I notice his eyes checking mirrors, noting other cars.
"You do that a lot," I say.
"Do what?"
"Watch everything. Everyone."
He's quiet for a moment. "Habit."
"From the military?"
"From before that, actually." He glances at me, then back at the road. "The military just... refined it." The corner of his mouth lifts. "You do it too, Laine. I've seen you at the camp. You're on alert."
"I don't — oh my goodness. You're right. I guess I do." Different reasons, maybe — I watch for medical crises, he watches for threats — but that constant low-level alertness? Yeah. I get it.
The Willow turns out to be a converted Victorian house tucked away on a side street. Inside, the lighting is warm and low, tables spaced far apart, soft music barely audible beneath the murmur of conversation.
We're seated in a booth against the back wall, the entire room visible in front of us.
Somehow, I don't think that's an accident.
"This is nice," I say, sliding in.
"I wanted somewhere we could actually talk." He settles across from me, but not directly across — slightly angled, so he can see the door. "Crowded places make it hard for me to... be present."
"Because you're always watching."
"Yeah." He picks up his menu, sets it down again. "I know it's weird."
"It's not weird. It's just..." I search for the right word. "Exhausting, probably."
He looks at me like he's searching for all my secrets. That's not unusual for him. He always looks at me like that. I used to find it unsettling. I think I'm getting used to it. "Most people don't get that."
"I work in an ER. I know what hypervigilance looks like." I reach across the table, touch his hand briefly. "How does it feel? Living like that?"
Blake considers the question. His thumb traces a pattern on the tablecloth.
"Honestly? I don't really know any other way." He shrugs, but there's weight behind the gesture. "It's just... how I've always been."
"Even as a kid?"
"Especially as a kid."
The waiter comes. We order — salmon for me, steak for him, a bottle of wine to share. When we're alone again, Blake doesn't make me pry more details out of him. I was half expecting this date to be a lot of heavy lifting on my part. But everything is just flowing.
"My mom tried really hard. She worked two, sometimes three jobs.
But we lived in neighborhoods where you learned to pay attention or you got hurt.
" He takes a breath. "I was the man of the house by the time I was eight.
Checking locks, making sure she got home safe, learning which streets to avoid after dark. "
Eight years old. I want to reach across this table and hold him. I want to go back in time and give that little boy a safe place to just be a kid.
"What happened to her?"
"Cancer. I was eleven." He says it flatly, the way people do when they've said it a thousand times but still feel the pain.
He picks up his wine glass. Takes a slow sip. Sets it back down precisely.
"After that, I came here to live with my grandpa."
"The woodworker grandpa."
A ghost of a smile. "Yeah. He taught me everything I know about restoration. About making broken things beautiful again."
The smile fades. He's quiet for a while, turning the wine glass by its stem.
"Living with him, I got to unlearn some of it. The constant watching." His voice goes softer. "He'd turned his whole garage into a workshop, and for the first time in my life, I could just... focus on something. Let my guard down."
"That sounds healing."
"It was." He pauses. Looks at the tablecloth. "For a while."
I wait. Don't push. My instinct is always to ask the question, to be straightforward, but I'm learning that Blake needs time.
I can give him that. Because when he does speak, it's always worth hearing.
"He got sick too." Blake's jaw tightens. "Parkinson's, then dementia."
Oh no. I can already see where this is going.
"So I went back to watching. Monitoring his medication, his balance, his memory. Making sure he didn't wander off or leave the stove on."
Another pause. Longer this time. He meets my eyes like he's checking whether I can take it.
"I was seventeen when he died."
Seventeen. Losing everyone who ever protected you by seventeen. My throat tightens, and before I can stop myself, tears blur my vision.
"Hey." Blake's voice goes soft. He reaches across the table, thumb brushing under my eye. "Don't cry for me, Laine."
"I'm not crying for you." The words come out thick, half-swallowed. "I'm crying for that little boy who had to grow up so fast. For the teenager who lost his grandfather right when he needed him most."
Blake's hand stills against my cheek. Something shifts in his expression — surprise, maybe. Like he's never considered his own story from the outside before.
"Blake." I cover his hand with mine, holding it against my face. "That's so much loss for one person to carry."
He doesn't pull away. Just watches me with those dark eyes. "It was a long time ago."
"That doesn't make it hurt less."
"No," he says quietly. "It doesn't."
"How did you handle it?" I ask softly. "After your grandfather."