Page 171 of What We Brave
He pulls back, studying me. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I just —" I gesture vaguely at the guest room, the ceiling, the general concept of waking up. "The guest room?"
"Blake carried you up around midnight. You were completely out." Reid tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "We didn't want to assume you'd want to sleep in either of our beds. Figured we'd let you decide."
That's sweet. That's actually really thoughtful. They gave me a choice. Like adults who communicate.
So why do I feel like this?
Blake appears beside Reid. Doesn't touch me. Just stands there with that watchful intensity, reading every micro-expression on my face like I'm a piece of wood he's checking for hidden damage.
And that's the thing. That's the thing that's too much right now. Not that he's looking at me — but that heseesme. Both of them do. And eight hours ago I was sandwiched between them on a couch making sounds I've never made in my life and now we're just... standing in a kitchen. With bacon.
How do people do this? How do you go from THAT to bacon?
"I need to meet Jamila," I blurt out. "We had a thing. Breakfast. I forgot about it."
Liar. You literally just texted her twenty minutes ago. The lying makes everything feel worse. I'm a jerk. But I can't stay here right now. I need to breathe. I need my friend.
They exchange a look. One of those silent conversations they do — some kind of military morse code transmitted through eyebrow movements. It used to make me feel excluded. Now it makes me feel seen in a way I'm not ready for at 8:47 in the morning.
Blake pulls out a chair and sits back down. Calm. Measured. He's giving me space. He knows. Of course he knows.
"You coming back after?" he asks. "Or going home?"
Woah. He just came right out and asked.
Going home would give me space. Time to process. Time to figure out what the hell I'm feeling and why I'm standing in a kitchen unable to make eye contact with two men who've seen me naked.
But going home also feels like running. And I promised myself I wouldn't run anymore.
"I'll be back. My stuff's still here."
Blake nods once. Reid squeezes my hand.
"Text us," Reid says. "Let us know you got there safe."
"I will."
I grab my keys and my purse and I'm out the door before either ofthem can say anything else. The cold air hits my face and I suck in a breath.
What am I doing?
I don't have an answer. I just know I need Jamila to help me figure it out.
The drive to the diner takes twelve minutes. My brain fills every single one of them.
You just ran out of there like the house was on fire. They probably think you're having a breakdown. ARE you having a breakdown? Is this what a breakdown feels like? Because it feels a lot like needing pancakes.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror at a red light. Same face. Same slightly wild eyes. Same mark on my collarbone that I keep touching without meaning to.
You had sex with Blake Moore. Multiple times. And then both of them — at the same time — on the couch?—
The light turns green. Someone honks behind me.
Drive, Mitchell. Process later. Drive now.
I pull into the diner parking lot and sit in my car for thirty seconds, rehearsing what I'm going to say.
