Page 139 of What We Brave
He's out there. Working. Giving us this.
A month ago, I would've felt guilty. Like I was stealing something, or rubbing it in his face. But tonight, listening to that saw, I just feel...settled. He knows she's with me. He knows she's safe. And he's okay with it.
Or mostly okay. We've dealt with a lot of shit in our own heads over the last couple of months, but we've worked through it. We're all mature and shit.
I pull the duvet up higher, tucking it around Laine's shoulders. She mumbles something and snuggles closer, her leg hooking over mine.
The saw goes quiet.
I hold my breath for a beat, two, three — waiting for it to kick back on. Nothing. Blake's done for the night, then. I can picture it exactly: him brushing sawdust off his forearms, clicking the shop lock, crossing the yard without bothering to look up at the stars or anything remotely poetic because he's Blake. He'll skip the shower. Just drop into bed smelling like cedar and polyurethane, and that'll be that.
I wonder if he's out there thinking about us.
Thinking about the same thing.
Part of me wishes I could be there. When it's his turn with her.
My brain catches on that and won't let go.
Because earlier — the kitchen — Blake's teeth on her neck, my hand in her hair, the way she just melted between us — that wasn't me gritting through it. That wasn't tolerance. That was something else entirely. Something with actual heat behind it. And look, I'm still not into guys. I don't want Blake's hands on me. That needle hasn't moved. But watching him take our girl apart? That slow, controlled, deliberate thing he does where he just — disassembles her, piece by piece, like he already knows the blueprint?
Yeah. I want to see that.
And I'm not going to apologize for it.
Laine shifts against me, her breath warm on my collarbone. I tighten the arm I've got looped around her and pull her in closer. She makes this sound — not awake, not asleep, somewhere soft in between — and burrows into me like I'm the only solid thing in the room.
"Mmph."
"Shh." I press my lips to the top of her head. "Go back to sleep."
She mumbles something that sounds like "cold" and throws her leghigher over my hip. The movement shifts the duvet, exposing her shoulder. Goosebumps rise on her skin.
I pull the covers back up, tucking them around her. My hand lingers on her bare shoulder, thumb tracing slow circles.
She's quiet for a long time. Long enough that I think she's drifted off.
"Reid?"
"Mm?"
"Is this... is this really going to work?" Her voice is small. Sleep-rough. "The three of us. Is it actually possible, or are we just... pretending?"
Fair question. The question I've been asking myself for weeks, lying awake in this bed, staring at the ceiling.
What if Blake can't handle it? What if I can't? What if jealousy tears us apart, or resentment builds up until something breaks?
I don't have guarantees. I've never done this before. Neither has she. Neither has Blake. We're making it up as we go.
"Honestly?" I let out a breath. "I have no idea."
She tenses against me.
"That's terrifying," she whispers.
"Little bit, yeah." I shift so I can see her face. Her eyes are wide open now, sleep gone, fear right there on the surface. "I can't promise it's going to work. There's going to be hard stuff. Jealousy. Miscommunication. Days when one of us feels left out or says the wrong thing."
"You're really bad at pep talks."
