Page 125 of What We Break
"More than when the vending machine gives me two bags of chips instead of one."
"A blessing from the gods."
Reid drops his forehead to mine, shoulders shaking. "If I had to choose between you and a lifetime supply of perfectly frosted brown sugar Pop-Tarts? I'd only hesitate for like... three seconds."
"Three whole seconds?"
"Maybe two. Depends on how hungry I am."
I smack his bare chest. He catches my hand before I can pull away, pressing a loud, ridiculous kiss to my knuckles, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Two seconds," he whispers. "Tops."
25
BLAKE
The kitchen light is brutal after hours in the dim workshop. I squint, drop my tool bag by the door. Hands stiff from gripping sanders and chisels all night. Knuckles ache.
I pull open the fridge, scan for something that doesn't require actual effort. Leftover Chinese. Deli meat. Couple of beers. My stomach growls and I grab the takeout container and a fork. Don't bother heating it. Too tired to wait.
Cold lo mein, congealed into a solid mass. I lean against the counter, shovel forkfuls into my mouth.
I shouldn't have gone straight to the workshop after we got back. Should've stayed. Eaten dinner with them. Acted normal.
But after today — the accident, watching Laine work on that little girl, the way she looked in my jacket for the rest of the drive — I couldn't do it. Couldn't sit across from them and pretend my brain wasn't doing what it was doing.
So I didn't.
I finished the detail work on the mantelpiece. Sanded it twice, even though it didn't need it. Reorganized my tool wall. Sharpened every chisel I own.
None of it fucking helped.
I kept seeing her kneeling in the gravel, blood on her hands, calm as anything. Kept hearing her voice, steady and sure, talking that little girl through the worst moment of her life.
I finish the lo mein and toss the container, run my hands under hot water. My reflection in the window above the sink looks like shit. Hair all over the place from running my hands through it, sawdust smeared across one cheek. Been worse. Probably.
The hot water feels good on my hands. I stand there longer than I need to, letting the heat work into the joints.
I dry my hands and head for the stairs. I'm so fucking tired.
Halfway up the stairs, I hear it.
Reid's voice. Low, rough. A groan that doesn't need translation.
I freeze, one foot on the next step, hand gripping the railing.
Then Laine. A sound that goes straight through me. Not words. Just—fuck.
The bed frame hits the wall. Once. Again.
She's stayed over before. I've been bracing for this. Dreading the night it finally happened.
Tonight is the lucky fucking night, apparently.
I should leave. Turn around, go back downstairs, sleep in the workshop like I have been for weeks. Give them privacy.
My legs won't move.
