52. Reese
Reese
Her fingers twitch first.
Just the slightest movement—but it steals the air from my lungs.
I shoot upright in the hospital chair, heart slamming like a fist against my ribs. Machines beep steadily. Her chest rises—slow and shallow—but there . Her eyelashes flutter.
Her eyes open.
Not wide. Hazy, but open.
“Harmony,” I breathe, gripping her hand tighter. “Hey… hey, I’ve got you.”
She blinks at the ceiling like she’s still caught somewhere between here and death. I watch her struggle to focus, to find me. But when she does—when her gaze finally locks onto mine—I fall apart.
Tears burn down my cheeks.
Not the quiet kind.
Not the kind you can blink away or bury.
The kind that come when you’ve been holding someone’s soul in your hands, praying they wouldn’t slip through your fingers.
“You’re okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay.”
She swallows hard, lips cracked, voice barely audible. “Reese…”
I press her fingers to my lips. “I’m here.”
“Why…” Her throat works around the question. Her voice is hoarse. “Why did you save him?”
The words are a blade.
I know who she means.
And I deserve the cut.
I nod slowly, wiping at my eyes before leaning close to her ear. “Because I had a deal.”
Her brow furrows. I can see the memory chasing her down. The gun. The blood. The betrayal. The boom .
“I made a deal with Dante,” I say quietly. “If I could get Damien vulnerable— if I set the scene right—Dante would take the shot. But I had to be there. Had to make sure he didn’t die too soon. Had to keep the story straight. Had to keep Damien’s trust.”
Harmony’s eyes shimmer. “So… you never really—”
“No.” My voice breaks. “I never picked him. Not over you. Not once.”
I reach up, brushing the tangled strands of hair from her forehead, smoothing them back like I’m trying to memorize every inch of her face all over again.
“You were the only thing that ever felt real,” I whisper. “The only thing that made me want to get out.”
She leans into my touch, barely nodding, tears slipping sideways into the pillow.
“I thought I lost you,” I say, my voice cracking under the weight of it. “And I didn’t even get to say it.”
“Say what?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and slide closer, my forehead resting gently against hers.
“That I’m so fucking lucky I ever met you,” I whisper. “That you’re the strongest thing I’ve ever seen. And that if I get even one more day with you—I won’t waste it.”
Her eyes close, lashes wet.
She doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t have to.
Because her hand curls around mine, pulling me closer, like she already knows—
I’m hers.
And I always have been.
* * *
The hospital tray creaks as I slide it across her lap, the wheels sticking like everything else in this damn place. She raises an eyebrow at the meal—soggy fries, a sad grilled cheese, and a cup of something pretending to be soup.
“Gourmet,” she murmurs, her voice still a little raspy, but stronger today.
I smirk, peeling the lid off my own tray and settling into the chair beside her. “Only the best for survivors of cult-run death auctions and psychopathic boyfriends.”
She snorts. It’s soft, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in days.
We eat in silence for a while. She doesn’t have much of an appetite, picking at her sandwich and sipping water, like it’s all a little too much and not enough at the same time.
Her eyes drift to the window.
Gray clouds. Some sun. A quiet afternoon that doesn’t feel borrowed anymore.
After a minute, she speaks.
“I don’t want a white picket fence.”
I glance at her. She’s still watching the sky like it might hold answers.
“I don’t want a ring. Or a house with a “welcome” mat. Or some kid calling me “mom”, like I wouldn’t shatter if they touched me too hard.”
I nod, but I stay quiet. Let her say what she needs.
“I don’t want to build anything,” she continues, voice low, like she’s confessing something terrible. “I just want to exist . I want to wake up and not be afraid. I want to eat good food. Watch terrible movies. Walk outside and not feel like I’m being hunted.”
She turns to me then, and her eyes are so honest it hurts.
“I want to feel like I survived for a reason. Not to become someone else’s version of whole—but just to be mine .”
The lump in my throat rises fast.
I reach for her hand across the tray, our fingers tangling the way they always should have—like they were built for this.
“That’s the only future I want too,” I say. “No performances. No promises I can’t keep. Just you.”
Her lip quivers. She blinks hard and forces a shaky smile. “We’ll be terrible at normal.”
“I don’t want normal,” I murmur. “I want you .”
Her thumb grazes my knuckles.
Outside, the sky brightens a little. Not blue. Not perfect. But better.
“I don’t know how to be okay,” she whispers.
I lean closer, my voice low and certain. “Then we’ll figure out how to be not okay together.”
She lets out a slow breath.
And this time—when she takes another bite of that sad excuse for grilled cheese—it’s not out of survival.
It’s a choice.