Page 133 of What We Brave
I head to the bathroom, curious.
The drawer he cleared isn't just empty. There's stuff in it. My stuff. My brand of moisturizer. The expensive shampoo I splurge on. Hair ties — the specific kind that don't pull. A new toothbrush still in the package. Even the specific kind of tampons I use.
I stand there staring at a bathroom drawer. My fingers close around the bottle of moisturizer, and I just hold it. Turn it over once. Set it back down.
Who does this? Who pays this much attention?
My whole life, I've lived out of bags. Two suitcases for eighteen years of missionary kid childhood. A duffel bag for nursing contracts. A carry-on for every country I've worked in. Everything temporary. Everything designed to be packed up and moved.
And now I have a whole set of my favorite products in my boyfriends' house.
I press my palms flat against the bathroom counter and lean into them. The tile is cool under my hands. Solid. Not going anywhere.
So this is what it feels like. Someone making room.
I feel Reid behind me before he speaks.
"Is it okay?" He sounds nervous. Shy, almost. "I remembered what you use from before. I wanted you to have some of it here. So you don't always have to pack everything."
I open my mouth and nothing comes out. "Reid."
"If it's weird, I can?—"
I turn around. He's leaning against the doorframe, shoulders hunched like he's bracing for rejection. This giant, capable man who runs toward emergencies for a living, looking at me like I might break his heart over a drawer of toiletries.
"It's not weird." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "It's perfect."
His whole face changes. That big, real Reid smile — the one that takes up too much space on his face, the one he doesn't seem to know he's doing. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I grab his shirt and pull him into the bathroom. He comes willingly — more than willingly, his hands are already finding my waist — and I push the door shut behind him, flip the lock. The click echoes off the tile.
"Laine—"
I kiss him. Hard. Not a thank-you kiss. Not a sweet little peck I could play off as gratitude for remembering my face wash. He makes a surprised sound against my mouth, and then his hands tighten on my hips and he's kissing me back, walking me backward until my thighs hit the edge of the sink.
"Missed you," I mumble against his lips.
"Saw you three days ago."
"Still missed you."
His hands slide under my sweater, warm against my ribs, and I arch into him. He groans — low in his throat, the sound vibrating through both of us. I want him. I've wanted him all week. Every time I closed my eyes, I thought about this. His hands on me. His mouth. The way he looks at me like I'm everything, which should terrify me, and maybe it does, but right now the terrifying thing and the thing I want most are the same thing and I'm so tired of pretending they're not.
"We should—" He pulls back slightly, breath ragged. "Dinner's almost?—"
"Don't care about dinner."
His laugh vibrates against my neck. "Blake's cooking."
"Don't care about Blake's cooking either."
Reid's hand slides down past my waistband, fingers finding exactly where I need them. I gasp, grab his shoulders.
"That's not fair," I manage.
"What's not fair?"
