Chapter 25 Nina
Nina
Iwoke earlier than I had back when I’d leave the house before sunrise just to catch the bus. The apartment was quiet, the kind of stillness that made every sound sharp, so I padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
In the living room, the side lamp shone a soft-yellow lighting, bringing my focus to Lincoln.
He was out cold on the couch, knees hooked over the armrest, toes twitching in deep sleep.
He was shirtless, the dark lines of his “Songbird” tattoo stretching over his ribs, one wing visible between his splayed fingers.
His chest rose and fell with every slow breath, dragging my eyes down the plane of his chest. He wasn’t packed with pretentious muscles, just lean, whipcord-strong, built for a speed to match the slicing of his sharp tongue.
A fine trail of hair started just below his waistband, disappearing at his navel before reappearing in light curls at his chest.
Goosebumps prickled his skin, hair on his forearms standing up as I lingered there too long, memorizing the exact ridge of his collarbone, the hollow between his ribs, the faint shadow of a scar across his ribs on his right side.
Blinking to pull myself out of this stalkerish tendency I didn’t realize I had, I grabbed the throw blanket and knelt by the couch.
I’d barely brushed the wool over his side when he jerked upright.
His chest heaved, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes wide and unfocused, as if he hadn’t just woken from sleep but from a nightmare he’d been running from.
“Hey,” I muttered, hands up, the blanket forgotten between us. “It’s just me.”
He blinked, shoulders still tight, hands flexing, patting the couch. Finally, he exhaled, long and shaky. “Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not a deep sleeper. Not anymore.”
I hesitated to ask, but he shared anyway, his jaw tensing as he added, “My dad thought nighttime was the best time to teach me lessons.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it, just let the words hang there.
Facts of his existence, and not the kind of truth that should crack a person open.
I felt it then, the Lincoln-shaped space he’d carved in my chest, expanding to take up just a bit more room.
I sat on the couch next to him and wrapped us in the throw, his flesh brushing mine in our unusual closeness.
“I thought you’d sleep in your room.”
He shook his head. “That room is farther from yours.” He tilted his head to the wall shared with my bedroom behind the couch. “I’m here to make sure your breath doesn’t even hitch.”
There was a cocky smile, teasing just the smallest dip of his dimples, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“And how would you know?”
He shrugged, leaning back into the couch cushions, the throw sliding down and baring his chest again. “Your breathing gets bad at night,” he said, voice low. “Sometimes, you don’t even notice.”
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his sternum, casual, as if he wasn’t admitting to listening for me while I slept.
“And?” I asked, though my chest had gone tight.
His hand drifted lower, splaying across his ribs, fingers curling over the edge of the “Songbird” tattoo. “I don’t like that room anymore.” His thumb pressed into the ink, leaving half-moon marks over the curling notes. “I entertained people who hurt you in there.”
My throat closed. “Lincoln …”
He glanced up, catching my eyes. “When you’re better, I want to sell this place.” His expression flickered, open and unguarded. “I know there’s no redo. But there doesn’t have to be this many reminders all the time.”
His other hand curled around his knee.
“You don’t owe me that,” I murmured.
“Don’t care,” he shot back, quiet but stubborn.
The throw slipped from my shoulders, revealing the faint scar marring his ribs, pale and uneven. My fingers ached to follow it, feel the jagged history of him. To smooth out the frown between his brows. To tell him this was the first time in weeks I hadn’t woken up overwhelmed by loneliness.
But the words caught in my throat. All I managed was “Maybe. But that room was also where you stopped being just someone who hurt me—and became someone who hurt with me.”
His breath hitched. Not sharp, not defensive, just quiet.
After an extensive back-and-forth and taking medicine under his watchful eye, Lincoln went to get a few things from my old apartment—his now.
I’d curled deeper into the throw blanket, inhaler still warm in my hand.
When the knock came, I half expected him, instead it was Lynnie standing in the doorway with Reality Bites goodies, and an expression I couldn’t read.
“Nina,” she whispered, coming into the apartment when I stood to the side.
“Hey, Lynnie.” My voice rasped, mostly in surprise.
She sat on the arm of the couch, close but not too close, twirling her thumbs.
For a moment, she just looked at me—and I looked back.
Happy to see her yet unsure how to show it.
When we were kids, each other’s company was enough to smooth the cracks between us.
Now, Lynnie had grown up to be a hugger, and I’d learned to keep people at arms’ length.
When she avoided my gaze, I deflected by saying, “I’m behind on posts for Reality Bites, I’ll get on those soon.”
“Nina, I’m not here for that.” Her voice went quiet. “I’ve never thought of myself as your employer. I haven’t managed to show you that.” She hesitated, then blurted, “Goddamn, Nins, I’m so happy you’re okay.”
She folded into me then, wrapping her arms around me tight.
The familiar mix of her hair product and coffee dragged me back to being sixteen, sitting cross-legged on my bed with the person who’d understood me best until I lived the unthinkable.
She sniffled into my neck while I patted her shoulder, awkward and stiff.
She muttered something into my shoulder, her body jolting as her sniffles turned into sobs.
My chest burned. This was Lynnie, the girl who cried for over an hour when Macaulay Culkin got stung by bees and died. She used to be the safest person I knew. And yet, there was this unspoken barrier between us we couldn’t seem to get past.
She pulled back and twisted the strap of her bag. “I wanted to see you. I couldn’t—” She winced, cheeks flushed. “I really don’t want to lose you again.”
I stared at the table, tracing the corner of the blanket and rolling it. Silence stretched, heavy, my lungs catching at the edges, the faint hiss of the nebulizer still ringing in my ears.
“I don’t really know how to let people in anymore,” I admitted. “You can’t pretend I’m the same person I was when we lost touch at seventeen, assume I’m just going to pour everything out the way I used to.”
Lynnie leaned forward, hand hovering just over mine—no contact unless I wanted it. “Maybe we could just get to know each other now.”
Slowly, I let my hand drop until my fingers brushed hers enough to let her know I wasn’t shutting the door on her. Lynnie’s shoulders shook in a whimper, but she didn’t push it.
We stayed that way for a long minute, her hand warm under mine, before I finally pulled away. “I’m wiped,” I said.
She nodded, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “We’ll be in touch?” she asked, a little tentative. “Maybe you can work from Reality Bites soon?”
“I’d have to bring Linc. We’re business partners now.”
She smiled and nodded at that. I wished she’d squealed the way I knew she wanted to. Maybe there wasn’t that much distance between us after all. I smiled at her.
The days after the attack turned into weeks.
I’d spent them with Lincoln almost exclusively.
He slept more nights on the couch than at his apartment.
The constant worry about finances in the back of my head couldn’t shake that it was wasteful, but we were at a standstill.
Professionally, Lincoln and I had shifted to full partners, legalities included, and we’d gotten BrightMark officially signed with Clean Slate Branding & Strategy.
Today was a break in our routine. The courtroom smelled faintly of polish and old carpet, a faint smell of bleach made my chest tighten even when my breath stayed steady, a day for chaos I didn’t want to relive.
Witness testimony during this hearing would determine if Natasha should be charged with battery or assault.
Carmen was getting off the stand, and Lincoln gave my knee a short squeeze, as he knew he’d need to take the stand next.
I’d been granted the opportunity to give a deposition to avoid stress triggers to my health.
I perched on the edge of my seat, inhaler tucked into my sleeve, watching Lincoln stand before the judge, back straight, teeth grinding.
Lincoln began, voice steady but sharp, slicing through the quiet hum of the room.
“I was present during the incident that took place during the BrightMark summit. I can confirm that Ms. Reyes was physically harmed as a direct result of Ms. Dabrowski’s actions.
” He paused, eyes flicking to me, protective, sharp, fully focused.
The judge leaned forward. “Mr. Carter, can you clarify whether you observed intent to cause harm?”
Lincoln’s jaw tightened. “What I saw was deliberate. I have no doubt about it. Did she hope Ms. Reyes’s attack was as bad as it was? I don’t know. I don’t care. She continued to take action in the face of increasing distress. She knowingly put Ms. Reyes at risk.”
Her defense attorney cut in, voice dripping with condescension. “Objection, Your Honor—how could Mr. Carter assess that Ms. Dabrowski saw this increasing distress?”
Lincoln’s blue eyes snapped up, cold as steel. “Ms. Camacho has already established that she knew of Ms Reyes’s condition. And she did it anyway. Call it what you want, but don’t pretend it’s harmless stupidity. That’s intent.”