Chapter 8 #2
"Reid!" Danny waves us over, grinning wide. He's a big guy with graying hair and the kind of face that puts people at ease immediately. "And Laine! Good to see you again!"
Wait. Again?
"Hey Danny," she says, giving him a quick hug. "Nice to see you too!"
"You two know each other?" I look between them, completely thrown. "How do you—when did—"
"Laine's been helping out for a few weeks now," Danny says, grinning. "When you said you were bringing backup, I had no idea it was going to be someone I already knew. This is perfect. Laine's more efficient than three of my regular volunteers combined."
I look at Laine, who's suddenly looking a little embarrassed. "You've been volunteering here?"
"Just a couple times," she says. "I heard about Danny's program through work. I didn't realize this is where we were coming."
"She's being modest," Danny says. "She's been here every week since she started coming."
This woman is full of surprises. She's been coming here every week, doing exactly what I do, and she didn't even mention it. Didn't try to impress me with it or use it as some kind of dating resume bullet point.
Who is she?
I help Danny unload folding tables and medical supplies while Laine works with Bethanny, the other volunteer, to set up a makeshift clinic.
Within ten minutes, they've got two stations ready—one table for blood pressure checks and basic assessments, another for wound care and medication distribution.
The first few people start approaching our setup, and I'm reminded why I like helping Danny with this. These aren't just unhoused people—they're individuals with stories and personalities and specific needs.
"Reid! My man!" Marcus shuffles over, Army jacket buttoned up despite the mild weather. "You bring any of those protein bars?"
"Would I let you down?" I dig into the supply box and toss him two. "How's the knee?"
"Better since you showed me those stretches."
There's Margaret, who's been living in her car for two months and needs her blood pressure medication adjusted.
James, who's got diabetes and needs help with wound care on his feet.
Izzy, who's maybe nineteen and clearly hasn't been living rough for long—she hangs back, watching everyone else before she approaches.
Laine handles each person with the same calm professionalism I saw at the hospital, but there's something different here. More personal, maybe. She remembers names, asks follow-up questions about things people mentioned in passing.
"How's that ankle feeling, Margaret?" she asks while taking blood pressure. "You said it was bothering you last week."
"Much better, honey. That wrap you showed me how to do really helped."
She's so comfortable here. Everywhere, really. I haven't seen her out of her element at all.
Correction. In the woods, she's out of her element. Everywhere else? She's a boss.
And she barely mentioned it. Didn't bring it up at breakfast, didn't casually drop it into conversation like some people would. Oh, I volunteer with the homeless on my days off, no big deal. She just... does it. Because it matters. Because people need help.
When's the last time I met someone who did things like this and didn't want credit for it?
Too fucking long. Or maybe I've just been meeting the wrong kind of women all this time.
"Reid?" James, the diabetic guy, waves me over. "Can you take a look at this? Laine said you know what to do."
I check the wound on his foot—it's healing well, no signs of infection. "Looks good, James. Keep it clean and dry, change the dressing every day."
"She's good people," James says quietly. "Doesn't talk down to us like some of the other medical folks who come through."
"Yeah," I say, watching Laine patiently explain how to properly dispose of insulin needles to an overwhelmed-looking woman. Her hand is on the woman's arm, gentle and reassuring. "She really is."
James gives me a knowing look. "You're a lucky man."
"We're not—" I start, then stop. Smile. "Yeah. I think I might be."
By the time we're packing up, the sun's starting to set and my back aches in the good way—the way that means you actually did something useful with your day. Have I had a backache because I laid on the couch the whole weekend watching TV?
Yeah.
But today was hella productive. We've seen twenty-eight people, distributed medications, cleaned wounds, checked blood pressures, and connected three people with social services for more permanent housing assistance.
Marcus waves as we're loading the van. "See you again, Reid?"
"You know it, man. Save me some of that coffee you've been hoarding."
He laughs and flips me off affectionately.
"Same time next week?" Danny asks Laine as we're loading supplies back into his van.
"I'll be here."
"What about you, Reid? Can I count on you?"
I glance at Laine, who's folding up chairs like a pro. "Yeah, I'll be here too."
In the truck afterward, Laine's quiet, looking out the window.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Just thinking. Some of those people... they've been living rough for months, but they're still taking care of each other. Did you see how Margaret shared her dinner with that young girl?"
"Izzy?"
"Yeah. She can't be more than twenty, and she's clearly scared. But Margaret just took her under her wing without being asked."
I pull up to a red light and look at Laine. Her hair's a little messy from the wind, and she's got a small smudge on her cheek, but she looks... content. Happy, even.
"Sometimes it's hard to remember that people are mostly good.
I think when you have nothing, you learn what matters.
And that's the people around you." I want to reach for her hand, but I hesitate.
We've barely touched beyond casual contact—helping her over that log, opening doors.
But sitting here, after watching her spend the afternoon taking care of people who needed it, I can't help myself.
I reach across the console slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. She doesn't. Her fingers curl around mine automatically, warm and sure, and my whole nervous system fucking sighs.
Her hand fits perfectly in mine. Soft but strong, with calluses on her fingertips from work. Real hands that do real things for real people.
This. This is what I want.
"Thanks," I say, voice coming out rough.
"For what?" she asks, and her voice is quieter now, like she feels it too—this shift between us.
"For not being annoyed about changing our plans. For jumping in and helping. For being..." I pause, trying to find the right words while my thumb traces across her knuckles. "For being exactly who I thought you were."
She turns to look at me, expression soft. "Who did you think I was?"
"Someone who sees people. Really sees them. Someone who helps because that's just who you are, not because you're trying to prove anything."
The light turns green, but I don't let go of her hand. She doesn't pull away either.
"That's a nice thing to say."
"It's a true thing to say."
I don't let her go the rest of the drive. I don't want to. Holding her hand feels too fucking good. Everything with her feels good. It feels right in a way nothing else in my life has in way too long.
If I have anything to say about it, I'm going to be seeing a lot more of her. And doing a lot more of this—her hand in mine, doing good work together, talking about nothing and everything.
This could be something real. Something that lasts.
Which means...
Fuck.
She's going to have to meet Blake.