Page 156 of What We Brave
Go inside. Whatever happened, happened. You wanted this for them. You orchestrated this. So go inside and deal with whatever's on the other side of that door.
I go inside.
The front door opens quietly. I toe off my shoes in the entryway and just — listen.
House is warm. Still. That specific flavor of quiet that means something went down and the dust hasn't finished settling yet.
I round the corner into the living room and stop.
Oh.
Blake's on the couch. Laine's curled against him with her head in his lap, dead asleep. He's got her wrapped in the big wool blanket from the back of the couch — tucked around her shoulders, pulled up under her chin. Of course he does. Blake would have her in a climate-controlled biosphere if the option existed.
She's wearing one of his t-shirts — I clock the tatted neckline peeking above the blanket — and her hair's the crazy wavy it gets after a shower.
Blake's hand rests on top of her head. Not stroking. Just there. Like he's making sure she doesn't float away.
He looks up when I come in.
And there's something in his face I have never seen before. Open. Settled. Like a storm that finally blew itself out and left nothing but clean sky behind it.
I know immediately what happened. That it happened. The sexy time.
Not the details. Don't need those. But the calm that's coming offhim — that bone-deep quiet — that's new. That'safter. That's a man who finally stopped fighting himself long enough to let something good in.
I rub at the middle of my chest. What is this. What am I feeling?
Happy. I'm happy. Genuinely, fully happy for him. For them. This is what I wanted. What I engineered. Seeing Blake Moore look peaceful for the first time in maybe years — that's worth every single second I spent driving around town feeling lost.
And underneath that — quiet enough that I can almost pretend it's not there — something else. Something with a dull edge that presses against my ribs.
Not jealousy. I know jealousy. This isn't that.
It's more like... standing outside a window. Looking into a warm room. Not being sure the lock hasn't been changed.
Stop it. You're being dramatic. You literally set this up.
I cross the room. Sit on the coffee table facing them, close enough that my knees almost touch Blake's.
"Hey." I keep my voice low so I don't wake.
"Hey." Blake's voice is rough. Quiet.
"You good?"
His hand shifts on Laine's head. Fingers threading through her hair, slow and careful, and something about the gentleness of it makes my chest hurt in a way I wasn't prepared for. Blake Moore, the guy who communicates in grunts and wood shavings, touching this woman like she's made of the most precious stuff.
"Better than okay," he says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He looks down at her. Something raw passes over his face — gratitude, maybe. Or disbelief. "Reid, I?—"
"I know." I do. Whatever he's trying to say —thank you, I'm sorry, I don't deserve this— I already know all of it. "I'm glad."
Quiet. Laine shifts in her sleep, mumbles something that sounds like "no more toast," and burrows deeper into Blake's lap. He adjusts the blanket around her shoulders without thinking about it. Automatic.
"She's exhausted," Blake says.
