Chapter 30
REID
Tony's daughter is fucking adorable.
I held her for twenty minutes while Tony complained about sleep deprivation and his wife laughed at both of us. Claire's so tiny she fits in the crook of my arm, all soft and warm and making these little snuffling sounds that are terrifying, but also the cutest thing I've ever heard.
God, she smells good. Do all babies smell like this? Like laundry and milk and something that makes your brain go quiet?
My brain doesn't go quiet for much.
"You want one of those someday?" Tony asked from the couch, dark circles under his eyes, burp cloth draped over his shoulder like a fashion statement.
"Yeah. Maybe. Someday."
The answer came out easy. Too easy. Because my brain immediately followed it with: With who? In what house? In what version of your life where any of this makes sense?
I handed Claire back before I could think about it too hard.
I make sure the drive home takes a while.
I stop for gas I don't need. The tank's at three-quarters. I stand at the pump anyway, watching the numbers climb, bouncing on my heels breathing in the fresh spring air.
What if it went wrong?
I pull back onto the road.
What if Blake froze up? Shut down? What if he said something cruel because that's what Blake does when he's scared — he bites?
Left turn. Past the hardware store. Past the diner with the crooked sign that annoys the hell out of me. Is it really that hard to hang a sign?
Okay, yeah, it is hard. But I bet I could send Blake over there to fix it for them. If it bugs me, I'm pretty sure it's close to giving him a coronary.
What if it went right?
That thought's harder somehow.
What if it went right and now everything's different and they don't—
Nope. Not finishing that one.
I circle the block. Pull into the gas station again. The same attendant looks at me through the window like I've lost my mind. I buy a bag of chips I don't want and sit in the parking lot eating them.
You're stalling, Garrison.
Yeah. I am.
Because here's the thing I'm not going to look at directly — the thing I keep shoving behind other thoughts like hiding a bill under a stack of junk mail:
What if they don't need me anymore?
What if Blake and Laine click into place like the last two puzzle pieces and I'm the extra one? The corner piece from a different box that someone shoved in by mistake?
Stupid. Blake would smack me upside the head for thinking that. Laine would give me that look — the one that makes me feel like she's ready to pop the top of my head off and root around inside.
I crumple the chip bag. Toss it in the passenger seat. Pull out of the parking lot.
One more lap around the block.
Okay. One more.
Claire smelled really good though. Like, unreasonably good. Is that an evolutionary thing? So you don't leave them in the woods? Tony would know. Tony knows weird shit like that.
Focus.
I turn onto our street.
Blake's truck is in the driveway. Laine's car too.
Both still here. That's either really good or really bad.
Or it's just two vehicles in a driveway, Reid. Calm the fuck down.
I sit in the truck for thirty seconds. Tap my fingers on the steering wheel. Bounce my knee.
Go inside. Whatever happened, happened. You wanted this for them. You orchestrated this. So go inside and deal with whatever's on the other side of that door.
I go inside.
The front door opens quietly. I toe off my shoes in the entryway and just — listen.
House is warm. Still. That specific flavor of quiet that means something went down and the dust hasn't finished settling yet.
I round the corner into the living room and stop.
Oh.
Blake's on the couch. Laine's curled against him with her head in his lap, dead asleep.
He's got her wrapped in the big wool blanket from the back of the couch — tucked around her shoulders, pulled up under her chin.
Of course he does. Blake would have her in a climate-controlled biosphere if the option existed.
She's wearing one of his t-shirts — I clock the tatted neckline peeking above the blanket — and her hair's the crazy wavy it gets after a shower.
Blake's hand rests on top of her head. Not stroking. Just there. Like he's making sure she doesn't float away.
He looks up when I come in.
And there's something in his face I have never seen before. Open. Settled. Like a storm that finally blew itself out and left nothing but clean sky behind it.
I know immediately what happened. That it happened. The sexy time.
Not the details. Don't need those. But the calm that's coming off him — that bone-deep quiet — that's new. That's after. That's a man who finally stopped fighting himself long enough to let something good in.
I rub at the middle of my chest. What is this. What am I feeling?
Happy. I'm happy. Genuinely, fully happy for him. For them. This is what I wanted. What I engineered. Seeing Blake Moore look peaceful for the first time in maybe years — that's worth every single second I spent driving around town feeling lost.
And underneath that — quiet enough that I can almost pretend it's not there — something else. Something with a dull edge that presses against my ribs.
Not jealousy. I know jealousy. This isn't that.
It's more like... standing outside a window. Looking into a warm room. Not being sure the lock hasn't been changed.
Stop it. You're being dramatic. You literally set this up.
I cross the room. Sit on the coffee table facing them, close enough that my knees almost touch Blake's.
"Hey." I keep my voice low so I don't wake.
"Hey." Blake's voice is rough. Quiet.
"You good?"
His hand shifts on Laine's head. Fingers threading through her hair, slow and careful, and something about the gentleness of it makes my chest hurt in a way I wasn't prepared for.
Blake Moore, the guy who communicates in grunts and wood shavings, touching this woman like she's made of the most precious stuff.
"Better than okay," he says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He looks down at her. Something raw passes over his face — gratitude, maybe. Or disbelief. "Reid, I—"
"I know." I do. Whatever he's trying to say — thank you, I'm sorry, I don't deserve this — I already know all of it. "I'm glad."
Quiet. Laine shifts in her sleep, mumbles something that sounds like "no more toast," and burrows deeper into Blake's lap. He adjusts the blanket around her shoulders without thinking about it. Automatic.
"She's exhausted," Blake says.
I can't help the grin. "Wonder why."
He huffs out a laugh. Almost a real one. "Shut up."
"Just saying. Girl shows up for one weekend and you put her in a coma."
"Reid."
"I'm impressed, honestly. Didn't know you had it in you. Figured you'd need a PowerPoint presentation and a safety briefing before—"
"I will knock you the fuck out."
"See, that's the Blake I know. Threatening violence from the couch while a woman sleeps in your lap. Very intimidating."
He shakes his head but his mouth twitches. That almost-smile that's basically a standing ovation from Blake Moore.
More quiet. Comfortable now. The kind we used to have before everything went sideways — before the deployment and the fight and the months of cold silence. Back when we could just sit in the same room and not need to fill it.
I've missed this.
God, I've missed this.
"So." Blake's studying me. That look he gets — the one that's all focus, like he's examining a piece of wood for cracks. "How was Tony's?"
"Good. Claire's getting huge. Tony's a mess. Standard new dad stuff."
"Uh-huh."
"His wife made th—"
"Reid."
"What?"
"How are you?"
Shit.
The directness catches me off guard. Which is stupid — Blake's always been direct. But there's something in the way he's looking at me. Not casual. Not checking a box. He's not going to settle for fine.
Doesn't mean I'm not going to try though. Feelings are hard.
"I'm fine." I bounce my knee. Tap my fingers on my thigh. "Good. Great, even. Glad it worked out. Mission accomplished."
Blake doesn't blink. "Don't bullshit me."
"I'm not—"
"You circled the block."
I go still. "What?"
"I saw you." He tilts his head toward the window. "Twenty minutes ago. You drove past, and then you drove past again."
Fuck.
Of course he knows. Blake doesn't miss shit. He never has. It's damn inconvenient sometimes.
"I was just giving you guys time." I shrug. Easy. Casual. Totally fine. "Didn't want to interrupt anything."
"That's not why you were circling."
"Blake—"
"Tell me."
His voice is quiet. Not demanding. Just... certain.
I run both hands through my hair. Blow out a breath. My knee is bouncing hard enough to shake the coffee table.
"I don't know how to—" I stop. Start again. "It's not jealousy. I need you to know that. I'm not jealous."
"I know you're not."
"It's just—" I gesture vaguely at the two of them. At the blanket and the wavy hair and the peaceful look on his face that I've never seen before. "You look like that. And that's good. That's what I wanted. Seeing you like this — Blake, I've wanted this for you for years."
"But?"
But I spent four hours at Tony's house holding someone else's baby and wondering if I just arranged myself out of my own family.
The thought forms clearly. Sharply. And I almost say it.
Almost.
"But nothing." I force a grin. "Seriously. I'm good."
Blake stares at me for a long time. Long enough that I have to look away.
"You remember what you were like after Jared?" he says quietly.
My stomach drops.
Blake kicked in my door.
Not metaphorically. Actually kicked it in.
Walked into my apartment, looked around at the wreckage of my life, and didn't leave.
Not that night. Not the next day. Not for weeks.
He just... stayed. Slept on my couch. Made me eat.
Sat in silence when I couldn't talk and talked when I couldn't handle silence.
That's how we ended up here. In this house. Together. Not because of some plan. Because Blake Moore broke down my door and refused to go home.
"Blake, don't—"