Chapter 23
REID
Iwipe the island down for the fourth time.
It was clean the first time. Sterile the second. Now I'm pretty sure I'm sanding through the sealant on pure neurosis alone.
I toss the rag into the sink and grip the edge of the counter, locking my elbows, leaning my full weight into it like the granite's going to tell me something useful.
The house is quiet. Not good quiet. Not cozy-fire-crackling quiet.
The kind of quiet that comes right before a monitor starts screaming a flatline alarm and you're already reaching for the crash cart.
The clock on the microwave reads 10:14 PM.
Okay. Math. I can do math. If they finished dinner at nine, and Blake drove the speed limit — which he sure as fuck will — they should've been back at Laine's apartment by nine-fifteen. Drop-off takes five minutes. Ten if they were talking. Fifteen if —
I shove off the counter and pace to the living room window.
Don't do it.
My truck keys are sitting on the entry table.
Catching the porch light like a little brass invitation.
A dare. It would be so easy. Just a quick loop.
One pass by her complex. See if her lights are on.
Make sure Blake's truck isn't still parked there.
Just to make sure she's safe. That's all.
That's — totally reasonable, right? People check on people.
It's a human instinct. Practically biological.
No.
I turn my back on the window. My fingers are still twitching at my sides, so I shove my hands into my pockets.
I am not that guy anymore. I can't be. That was the guy who lost her. The guy white-knuckling his way through every day on three hours of sleep and a prayer, on the fucking verge of a complete breakdown and too stubborn to see it.
I promised her space. I promised her we could do this — this crazy, impossible thing — the right way.
And the right way means staying in this damn house and trusting my best friend with the woman I love.
With the woman he loves too.
Headlights sweep across the wall.
My head snaps up. Diesel engine rumble, then the heavy thud of a truck door.
I force my feet to stay planted. Don't rush to the door. I walk back to the kitchen, grab a water bottle from the fridge, crack the seal, take a drink. Casual. Relaxed. Definitely haven't been wearing a trench into the floorboards for the last three hours.
The front door opens.
Blake walks in.
I scan him before I even realize I'm doing it. Gait. Posture. Facial tension. Can't turn the medic off, never could, probably never will.
He looks different.
For months — ever since the workshop, ever since Afghanistan — Blake's been hauling an invisible ruck everywhere he goes. Usually walks in staring at the floor, shoulders hunched forward, bracing for whatever's coming next.
Tonight, his head is up. He looks tired, yeah, but the tight lines around his eyes have smoothed out. Like he finally set the weight down and walked away from it.
He sees me standing by the fridge. Doesn't flinch.
"You're up," he says, tossing his keys into the bowl.
"Yeah. Just, um, needed water." I wave the bottle in the air like some kind of exhibit A. Very convincing, Reid. Really nailed that one.
Blake just gives me the look. The you're full of shit look. "How many times did you clean the kitchen?"
I don't know why I even tried. "Three," I admit.
Blake walks to the fridge. I step aside, let him in. He grabs a beer, twists the cap off, leans back against the counter opposite me. Takes a long pull, his throat working. Lowers the bottle and looks me dead in the eye.
"Yeah," he says, answering the question I haven't asked yet. "We're good."
I nod. Keep my face neutral. My pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. "And her?"
Blake's mouth quirks at the corner. Small. Genuine. "She's good, Reid. She ate. She laughed." He pauses, studying me, reading every single thing I'm trying to keep off my face. "She looked happy."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Happy.
My fingers loosen around the water bottle. I didn't even realize I'd been strangling it.
"Good," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. "That's... good."
Blake pushes off the counter. He walks past me toward the hallway, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he goes. Squeezes once. Hard. No words. Doesn't need them. That's the truce, signed and sealed in one grip.
"Maybe you should call her," he says quietly. "Check in on her."
Then he's gone. Door clicks shut behind him.
I stand in the kitchen. The silence fills in like water.
Maybe you should call.
My pulse hammers up into my throat. The urge to just go — to get in the car and drive to her — hits me so fast it's almost physical, like a shove between the shoulder blades.
I want to see it. Whatever Blake saw on her face, the happiness or the relief or whatever it was, I want to see it for myself.
I want to put my hands on her and confirm she's real, she's still here, we haven't scared her off, that this whole fragile, terrifying thing between us isn't about to blow apart.
My eyes land on the keys again.
Stop.
If I show up uninvited, I'm just proving I haven't changed. I'm the guy who can't sit still, who doesn't trust her to be okay without me hovering, who needs to control the scene. That guy. Again. Still.
But maybe he's right. Maybe a call would be okay.
I grab my phone off the counter before my brain catches up to my hand.
Thumb hovers over her name. A call. Just a call. Except — no. A call feels too small. I need to see her face. I need to see that she's okay, that Blake didn't break something, that I didn't break something by staying away.
I hit the video icon.
Three rings. Four. My hand tightens around the phone, knuckles going pale against the case —
The screen lights up.
Laine's face fills the frame, soft and warm in the glow of her bedside lamp. She's already in bed, blankets pulled up to her chin, hair fanned across her pillow. Her eyes are half-lidded, that drowsy look she gets when she's fighting sleep.
"Hey," she says, voice husky.
Every muscle in my shoulders drops about three inches. "Hey."
"You okay?"
I lean against the counter, tilt the phone so she can actually see me instead of my ceiling. "Yeah. I just... wanted to see you."
Her lips curve. "Missed me already?"
"Always." No joke chaser. No pivot. Just the word, sitting there, naked and honest. I clear my throat. "Blake just got home."
"I know. He texted me when he pulled into the driveway." She shifts against the pillow, and even through the screen I can feel her reading me. Scanning. That thing she does where her eyes move across my face like she's checking vitals. "Reid. Are you okay?"
I could lie. I could tell her I'm fine, that I spent the evening on the couch like a normal human being, that I didn't pace a groove into the hardwood until I could practically see subfloor.
But we promised honesty.
"I was worried," I admit. "I waited up for him. Cleaned the kitchen three times."
"Three times?"
"Maybe four."
She laughs — that soft, low sound — and my hand tightens around the phone like I can hold onto it. "That bad?"
"I was tempted to drive over." The words scrape out sideways, like they don't want to leave. "Park outside your building. Just... make sure."
Her expression shifts. Not fear — she's not afraid of me anymore, thank fuck — but something careful. Watchful.
"But you didn't," she says quietly.
"No." I swallow hard. My thumb drags back and forth across the edge of the phone case. "I didn't want to be that guy again." Pause. "Stalker Reid. The one who scared you."
"You're not him anymore."
"I'm trying not to be."
She's quiet for a moment, her eyes soft in the lamplight. "How do you feel? Knowing I was out with Blake tonight?"
The question lands in my gut like a fist. I take a breath. Think about it. Really think.
"I didn't love it," I admit. "Sitting here. Wondering. Not knowing what was happening." I pause, watching her face. "But now that I get to see you? Talk to you? Have some time with you?" I exhale. "I'm good. This helps."
Her smile widens, sleepy and sweet. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She yawns, jaw cracking loud enough I hear it through the speaker. "I'm fading fast."
"I can let you go—"
"No." She burrows deeper into the blankets, shuffling her phone on the pillow next to her so I can still see her face. "Take me to bed with you. Tell me about your day."
I grip the edge of the counter. "Laine..." She's too sweet. Too good. Handing me exactly what I need when she's the one who should be resting.
"Please? I want to fall asleep with you."
I push off the counter and head for the stairs, keeping the phone angled toward my face. "Okay. But my day was boring. You sure you want to hear about a grease fire and a twisted ankle?"
"Every word."
I climb into bed fully clothed — too tired to care, too tired to do anything but kick my shoes off the edge. I prop the phone on the pillow beside me, mirroring her position. Her eyes are already drifting shut.
I tell her about the grease fire. The panicked college kid who tried to throw water on it — “water, Laine, on a grease fire” — and Tony's running commentary in the truck. The twisted ankle from a jogger who refused transport and tried to limp away like some kind of action hero.
Her breathing slows. Evens out.
I keep talking anyway, my voice dropping to a murmur. The sunset I caught from the rig — all orange and ridiculous, the kind you'd put on a postcard nobody believes is real. The good coffee at the station, actual good coffee, not the usual motor oil Tony brews.
Her lips part. Soft exhale.
Asleep.
I lie there watching her for a long moment. The rise and fall of her shoulders. The way her face goes completely slack, completely still, completely at peace.
"Goodnight," I whisper.