Chapter 43 #2
Blake ignores us both, already directing placement in the bedroom. The platform is waiting — has been for days. He built it in the workshop, sanded and finished it, carried it down in pieces and assembled it in the room. Low profile, clean joints, simple and solid. Like everything he makes.
I helped him sand it. He'd handed me a block and showed me which direction to go with the grain, and we'd worked shoulder to shoulder for an hour without talking, and it was one of the best afternoons of my life.
"Sign here." The delivery guy hands Reid a tablet. He scribbles something illegible. "You folks need anything else?"
"We're good," Blake says. "Thanks."
The door closes behind them and the three of us stand in the bedroom, staring at the bed.
It's... big.
I knew it would be big. I saw the measurements, helped compare mattress specs, watched Blake map out the room with blue tape on the floor. But knowing something and seeing it eat sixty percent of your bedroom floor are different experiences.
The room used to be a rec room — open, carpeted, forgettable.
Now it's ours. Renovated bathroom. New fixtures.
Painted the walls a warm gray that makes the space feel bigger and cozier at the same time.
Reid installed the overhead light, and by installed, I mean he short-circuited everything and called Blake to fix it.
I picked the curtains, which Blake hung without commenting on the pattern even though I could tell he had opinions.
Every decision, every compromise, every what about this one and absolutely not and okay fine but I'm choosing the towels.
"It's the size of a boat," I say.
"It's a bed," Blake says.
"It's a bed with its own zip code." I walk the perimeter — about eighteen inches between the frame and my dresser. There's just enough room to open the drawers.
It's perfect.
"Okay." Reid claps his hands. "Sheets."
"Already washed." Blake moves to the closet, pulls out a neatly folded stack. "Mattress protector. Then fitted sheet first—"
"I know how to make a bed, Blake."
"Do you? Because you slept in a sleeping bag for—"
"Oh, here we go."
I leave them to it and hunt for the pillows. We bought too many. Reid has a specific neck-support situation. Blake has opinions about thread count that I didn't know a person could have. I kept adding throw pillows because the bed is enormous and would look like a parking lot without them.
By the time I get back they've managed the fitted sheet — mostly — and are arguing about the top sheet.
"Soft side up," Reid says.
"Soft side down. Against your skin."
"The tag goes at the bottom."
"The tag is irrelevant—"
"You're both ridiculous," I announce, dumping the pillows on the half-made bed. "It's a sheet. No one's going to die."
They look at me. At each other. At me.
"Soft side down," they say in unison.
"You guys are so annoying."
But I'm laughing, and so are they, and twenty minutes later the bed is properly made. White sheets, the duvet that had to be special ordered, approximately nine thousand pillows.
We stand back.
"Well," Reid says.
"Yeah," Blake agrees.
I take a running start and launch myself into the center.
The landing is soft and perfect. I bounce once, twice, settle into the memory foam. Above me, the ceiling is freshly painted — Blake touched that up too, while he was at it, because he can't leave anything unfinished.
I spread my arms and legs out. Full starfish.
I can't touch the edges.
"This is completely ridiculous," I say to the ceiling. "I love it."
The mattress dips on my left — Blake lowering himself down. Then my right, Reid's weight settling in. We lie there, all three of us, staring up at the ceiling like we're stargazing.
I reach out both hands. Find theirs without looking.
Blake's fingers are rough, calloused from the workshop and the tile work and everything he builds. Reid's are smoother but just as strong. I hold on.
Something expands in my chest.
Two months since I moved in. Since we packed up my apartment in a single afternoon — turns out I hadn't accumulated much — and drove it over in Reid's truck.
Months filled with dinners and morning coffee and falling asleep next to someone — sometimes Blake, sometimes Reid, always doing the math, always counting nights.
No more counting. Not after tonight.
"What are you thinking about?" Reid asks.
"Everything. Nothing." I squeeze their hands. "How weird this is."
"Good weird?"
"The best weird."
Blake's thumb traces a circle on my palm. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.
"Joyce asked about you two yesterday," I say. "At shift change."
"Yeah?" Reid props himself up on an elbow. "What'd she say?"
"She wanted to know if you were treating me right. Both of you." I smile. "I told her you made me coffee every morning and never complained about my cold feet, and she said that was the bare minimum."
"Tough crowd," Blake murmurs.
"She likes you. She just has standards."
"Day shift still good? You don't miss everyone?" Blake asks.
"Day shift is amazing." I sigh contentedly. "Regular hours. Actual sunlight. I forgot what it felt like to be awake when normal humans are awake." And yeah, I miss working with Joyce, but the trade offs are still worth it. Besides, the day crew is pretty great too.
"You're a normal human now?"
"Debatable. But adjacent."
Reid laughs, and the bed doesn't shake a bit. "Progress."
"I'll take it." I squeeze their hands. "I'm just saying. It's good. All of it. Better than I thought it would be."
"This, you mean? Living here? You thought it would be bad?" Reid asks looking like he's half asleep.
"I thought it would be harder." I look back at the ceiling. "I thought we'd fight more. Or someone would get jealous. Or I'd wake up one morning and realize I'd made a terrible mistake."
"Have you?" Reid's voice is light, but the question is real.
"No." No hesitation. "Not once."
Blake squeezes my hand tighter.
"Okay," Reid says, sitting up. "Logistics."
"Logistics?"
"Sleeping positions. We should figure this out before tonight."
Blake sighs, but pulls himself up too. I stay sprawled in the middle.
"I'm in the middle," I announce. "Obviously."
"Obviously," Reid agrees. "But which side for each of us?"
"Does it matter?"
"It might. What if you always turn left in your sleep? Then you'd always wake up facing the same person. That's a lot of pressure."
Blake sighs and rubs his eyes. "I don't think I turn left."
"You don't know. You're asleep."
"Fair point. I'll take the side closest to the door," Blake says.
He's not looking at me, but I understand. The door. The entry point. If anything happens, he wants to be between us and whatever's coming.
I don't call him on it. Neither does Reid.
"Door side for Blake," I say. "Window side for Reid."
"I run hot anyway." Reid shrugs. "Window works."
"Which means I'm between you, and you two don't have to touch each other's gross man-bodies all night."
Blake snorts. "Generous."
"I'm a giver."
"More like self-preservation," Reid says. "I've shared a tent with him. He radiates heat like a nuclear reactor."
"Better than your sandpaper feet scraping my legs all night."
"My feet are not—"
"Reid. I've seen your calluses catch on the sheets. It would be like sleeping next to a cheese grater. I'm shocked as shit Laine's not all cut up."
"That's disgusting."
"You're disgusting."
I look between them, delighted. "So I'm in the middle because you two can't play nice."
"You're in the middle because you're the only civilized one here," Blake says.
"Also because we both want to be next to you," Reid adds. "But mostly the civilization thing."
"I feel so honored."
Reid reaches over and tugs my ankle. "Come on. Get up. We need to properly test this."
"I'm testing it."
"You're starfishing. That's not a real test."
"Feels like a real test to me. I'm comfy," I whine.
But I let him pull me up, swing my legs over the side. And as I push myself to standing — hands braced, weight shifting — I have this flash.
Me. Eight months pregnant. Trying to roll out of this bed.
The image is so vivid it stops me mid-motion. Huge and unwieldy, struggling to sit up, center of gravity completely wrong. Alone, it would be a comedy of errors. I'd get stuck and just lie there, waiting for gravity to make decisions for me.
But I wouldn't be alone.
Two sets of hands. One on each side. Steadying, lifting, helping me find my feet. Making jokes about it, probably. Competing over who's more helpful.
I'd never have to do it alone.
The thought ambushes me completely. I haven't let myself think about that kind of future — not seriously, not in concrete images. It's too big. Not that I don't want it. I do. I want everything with these men. But until this moment, I hadn't let myself go there.
But it feels so right.
But right behind that thought comes another.
How would I even tell Mom?
Congratulations, you're a grandmother. No, I'm not sure which one is the father. Does it matter?
It would matter to Mary Mitchell. It would matter enormously.
My stomach tightens. Because this isn't abstract anymore. This life has a future. A future with milestones that involve my parents. Holidays. Grandchildren. A future where the secret doesn't just stay secret — it grows.
I can't hide a whole extra boyfriend. I can't hide a baby with two dads.
You have to tell her. Not next time. Soon. Before Guatemala. Before she meets them and you have no choice.
"Laine?" Blake's watching me, a small furrow between his brows. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I grab a pillow and throw it at Reid's head. "We have too many pillows."
Reid catches it easily. "There's no such thing as too many pillows."
"There are nine pillows on that bed, Reid."
"And?"
"That's three per person."
"I'm not seeing the problem here, Poodle."
"Movie night?" Reid suggests, pushing his empty plate back.
"It's Wednesday."
"And?"
"Don't you have an early shift?"
"The earliness is relative."
Blake's already collecting plates. "I vote movie."
What I actually want is to go downstairs and crawl into our new bed and lie there feeling the space, feeling them beside me. But Reid's already scrolling through options and Blake's running water in the sink and this is what we do. This is our Wednesday night.
Any other night, this is exactly what I'd want to do. But we have that big new bed downstairs waiting for us, and I can't think about anything but the three of us crawling into it.
But movie night is a thing now, so I curl up on the couch. Reid on one side, Blake on the other.
"Not another action movie."
"What's wrong with action movies?"
"Nothing, if you're twelve."
"Die Hard is a cinematic masterpiece."
"Die Hard is a Christmas movie and it's May."
"Die Hard is an anytime movie—"
"Oh my God." I take the remote. "I'm picking. You both lose privileges."
They grumble but settle. I find something light and forgettable.
"This one."
"What is it?"
"Does it matter? We're going to talk through the whole thing anyway."
Blake laughs — low, surprised. "Fair point."
We do talk through all of it. Commentary and jokes and a full-blown argument about whether the lead is charming or just insufferable. Blake's arm settles around my shoulders. Reid's hand finds my knee, his thumb tracing lazy patterns he's probably not even aware of.
And the whole time, this quiet thing sitting in the back of my brain like it's been waiting for a seat:
I want more than this.
Not more than the couch. Not more than the movie. More than the careful way we touch each other. The way we rotate beds and take turns and keep everything balanced and fair and controlled. So balanced. So fair. So controlled it makes my teeth ache.
I want what happens when you stop being careful.
I've been with them separately. I know how Blake kisses — like he's memorizing me for a test he's terrified he'll fail. I know how Reid touches me — like he's mapping territory he still can't believe is his. I know what each of them sounds like. What makes each of them come apart.
But both of them. Together. At the same time.
I think about it more than I should. Haven't said a single word about it.
Why not? Because I don't know how to bring it up without sounding like I'm requesting a performance?
Because I'm afraid they'll be weird about it — about touching each other, about sharing that space?
Because I'm terrified that wanting both of them at once makes me exactly what my mother spent fifteen years praying I wouldn't become?
Stop it. That's her voice, not yours.
The movie ends. We start another one — worse, truly terrible, the kind of bad that loops back to entertaining. We mock the dialogue, predict twists, quote ridiculous lines at each other.
By the credits, it's nearly midnight.
"Bed," Reid groans without moving. "New bed. We should use it."
"Requires standing."
"Standing is the worst."
"We have a brand new bed," I point out. "Giant, expensive, extremely comfortable. And we're on the couch."
"The couch is right here."
"Blake." I poke his side. "Tell him."
Blake raises an eyebrow at me.
"Bed. Now. Both of you."
It takes ten more minutes of groaning, but we make it downstairs. The bedroom is dark, the bed a massive pale shape in the shadows. Reid hits the bathroom first, then Blake, then me. Teeth brushed, faces washed, pajamas on.
I climb in first. Middle position. The sheets are cool and smooth, and I'm pretty sure this is the mattress people sleep on in heaven.
Blake slides in on my left, nearest the door. Reid on my right, by the window. So much space — I could roll over twice without touching either of them.
But I don't want space.
I scoot toward Blake until my shoulder touches his. Reach back until my foot finds Reid's calf.
"Octopus," Reid mutters. But he shifts closer.
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
Blake's hand finds mine under the covers.
"Hey," I say softly. "Thank you. For this. The bed, the room, all of it."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. I want to."
Quiet. Then, so soft I almost miss it, "I didn't think I'd get to have this."
My heart clenches. I squeeze his hand.
"Well," I whisper. "You do."
Reid's arm comes around my waist from behind, pulling me back against his chest. Sandwiched. Blake's hand in mine, Reid's arm around me, both heartbeats close enough to feel.
"Go to sleep, Laine," Reid murmurs into my hair.