Chapter 22 #2
"Jared and Reid." His voice shifts, warming.
"I made friends with Jared when I moved here, and spent a lot of time at their house.
Their family basically adopted me for my last year of high school.
Jared's dad taught me how to throw a football.
His mom made sure I ate three meals a day.
" A real smile this time, small but genuine.
"When we enlisted, whatever base we were on became home. "
"And then you lost Jared too."
The smile vanishes. "Yeah."
We sit in silence for a moment. Not uncomfortable — just heavy with everything unspoken.
No wonder he and Reid are so connected. They've been each other's anchor through everything. And now I'm part of that somehow.
"I'm sorry," I say finally. "I keep asking you about painful things."
"Don't be. It's..." He looks at me, and there's something vulnerable in his expression.
"It's good, actually. Talking about it. With you.
That's the point of this, right? Letting you see me.
" The vulnerability flickers into something almost sheepish.
"I wish I had lighter stuff to share with you, but my life hasn't had a lot of light in it. "
I want to be that for him. The lighter thing. The reason his shoulders drop and his jaw unclenches and that almost-smile stops being almost.
Our food arrives. The conversation drifts somewhere easier — pranks he and Jared used to pull on Reid, a client who insisted her 1920s fireplace needed to be "more Victorian.
" I tell him about crawling under Jamila's coffee table, and he laughs.
Not a polite exhale. A real laugh, warm and caught off guard, like I surprised it out of him.
That sound. I want to hear that sound every day.
"Reid mentioned your dad," he says over dessert — chocolate cake we're splitting. "The heart attack scare. How's he doing?"
"Better. It wasn't actually his heart, just a combination of exhaustion and dehydration. But it scared me." I push chocolate around my plate. "They're not young anymore. They keep taking on these physically demanding projects like they're still in their thirties."
"Do you have plans to see them soon?"
I shake my head. "Not really. I've been so focused on everything here. But normally I visit them every few months between contracts." I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. "Gosh, I just realized this is the longest I've gone without seeing them since I started nursing."
I miss them. This having scheduled vacations and regular schedule has really messed with my family time.
"You should go," Blake says simply. "They're your parents. And it sounds like you miss them."
He's right. I didn't even realize how much until he said it.
"We'll be here when you get back," he adds.
We. Not "I'll be here." We. Both of them. Waiting for me to come home.
"What do you think they'll say?" Blake asks. "About... this. Us."
I set down my fork. "You mean about me dating two men?"
"Yeah."
I've thought about this. Late at night, staring at my ceiling, imagining the conversation.
"They'll be surprised. Probably confused at first. They're missionaries — pretty traditional Christian values.
" I take a breath. "But they've also spent their entire lives serving people most churches ignore.
They've seen every kind of family, every kind of love.
I think... I think they'll want me to be happy more than they'll want me to be conventional. "
Okay, so maybe that's not the totally honest answer. But it's the rosier outcome I'm hoping for. Because losing my parents over this? I don't know if I could survive that.
"That's good."
"What about you? What would your grandpa have thought?"
Blake goes still. For a long moment, he doesn't answer.
"He would have worried about me," he finally says. "Asked if I was sure, if I'd thought it through."
He turns the wine glass again. Slow circles.
"But he also..." His voice roughens. "He loved my grandmother for forty-three years. Said she was the only person who ever saw all of him and stayed anyway."
He stops. The glass goes still.
"I think he would have understood wanting that.
Even if —" He shakes his head slightly. "I don't know.
He was a traditional guy. Church on Sundays, one woman, one life.
But he also spent forty-three years being grateful that someone chose to stay.
So maybe he'd get it. Or maybe he'd just worry. " A pause. "He worried a lot."
"Sounds like someone I know."
The corner of his mouth lifts.
We finish dessert. Blake pays, playfully glaring at me when I reach for my purse, and then we're back in his truck, driving through the dark streets to my apartment.
The drive home is quieter. Not awkward — just full. Like we used up all the easy words at dinner and what's left is the stuff that lives underneath language.
Blake's hand rests on the gearshift between us.
His thumb taps a slow rhythm against the leather.
No coat, because of course not. He runs hot, thank god, and the late February chill that has me burrowing into my jacket like a small burrowing animal — a mole, maybe, or one of those hairless cats that's always cold and vaguely upset — doesn't seem to register for him.
Which means there's nothing covering those rolled sleeves.
Nothing between me and the forearms I've been trying not to stare at all night.
I lose that battle now.
The streetlights slide across his skin in slow pulses. Tendons shift when he turns the wheel. There's a faded scar near his wrist I've never noticed before, and I want to trace it with my thumb. Want to ask him where he got it. Want to press my mouth to it.
So that's where we are. That's the level of composure I'm operating at. Wanting to kiss a man's wrist scar like I'm in a BBC period drama and he just offered me his hand stepping out of a carriage.
He glances at me. Catches me looking. His jaw tightens — not in a bad way. In a way that says he knows exactly where my eyes just were.
Neither of us says anything.
The silence hums between us, and I let it.
I've kissed Blake twice now. Both times soft, careful — me reaching for him like he might shatter if I pressed too hard. And both times he let me set the pace, held himself so still, like one wrong move would scare me off.
I don't want still tonight. I don't want careful.
I want to know what happens when Blake stops holding back. What his hands feel like when they're not gentle. What his mouth feels like when he's not letting me lead.
My knees press together and I stare out the windshield like the road is suddenly the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.
Please kiss me tonight. Please don't be a gentleman about it.
Back at my place, he walks me to my door. His hand on my back again, warm and steady. Between us, the air is actually humming. Or maybe that's my ears. Either way, the feelings are big.
We stop outside my apartment. Face each other in the dim hallway light.
"I had a really good time," I say. "A really, really good time."
"Yeah?" That uncertainty again. Like he can't quite believe it.
"Yeah."
He's close. Close enough that I can smell his soap, something woodsy and clean. Close enough that I can see his breathing has changed, his chest rising a little faster than it should.
Kiss me. The thought is so clear, so loud, I'm half-convinced I said it out loud.
"Laine." My name in his mouth. Rough and low and desperate. And okay, good. At least it's not just me. At least I'm not the only one standing in this hallway losing my mind.
He leans in.
This kiss is nothing like the desperate, impulsive one at the homeless camp. Nothing like the soft, quick peck in the garage.
This is the kind of kiss that burns every single thought out of my head. Just gone. All of it. Every worry, every question, every sarcastic comment I've ever used as a shield — incinerated.
His mouth is on mine and it's not careful, not tentative, not asking permission.
One hand cradles my jaw and the other presses flat against my lower back, pulling me into him like the space between us is a problem he needs to solve immediately.
He kisses like he's been starving. Like I'm the only thing that could save him.
Like he's been holding back a flood and he just — let it break.
Nothing about Blake is refined or delicate. His teeth graze my bottom lip. His tongue slides against mine, hot and demanding, and when I gasp he swallows the sound whole, deepens the kiss until I can't remember what standing upright is supposed to feel like.
My fingers grip his shirt. His hand tangles in my hair. He presses me back against my door, and I feel every hard inch of him, the restraint coiled in his muscles, the barely-leashed control like he's holding himself on a very short chain and the links are about to snap.
Every nerve ending I possess suddenly has Blake's name on it. Reid kisses me like he's memorizing something precious. Blake kisses like he's drowning and I'm air.
And I don't have to choose.
I almost laugh against his mouth. That's the whole point, isn't it? I don't have to choose anymore.
This was the best freaking idea. I'm a literal genius.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"I should go," he says. His voice is wrecked.
"You should." I don't let go of his shirt.
I want him to stay. The thought isn't scary anymore. It's just true. My apartment is going to feel so empty when he leaves. My bed is going to be so cold.
His forehead drops to mine. "If I don't leave now, I won't leave."
"I know." And I do know. This is fast. Too fast. The whole point of dating is to build a foundation, and he loves me. He's said it over and over. He deserves to know if I can love him back before we go any further. And I don't want to hurt him.
He kisses me again, softer this time, almost gentle, like an apology for everything that came before it. Then he steps back. His eyes are stormy, pupils blown wide.
"Goodnight, Laine."
"Goodnight, Blake."
I just stand there. Staring at him. My brain has fully left the building. His lips quirk, and then he's gently prying my keys from my hand and unlocking the door himself. And then I'm inside, back pressed against the closed door.
"Lock it, Laine."
That voice. I flick the lock, and finally, his footsteps recede down the hallway. My legs feel like jello. My heart's pounding. My hands are actually shaking.
I'm in so much trouble.
I can't wait.