Page 190 of What We Brave
Blake snorts from the stove. "She's talking about the pancakes, not you."
"She's definitely talking about me." Reid's arm stretches along the back of the chair behind my shoulders. "I'm the one who made her coffee."
"You pushed a button on a machine." Ooh, he's still a little salty. But Reid and I ganged up on him. His coffee was going to wear a hole through my stomach lining. Reid's is so much better.
"I pushed it withlove."
This. This right here. The easy banter, the way they orbit each other in the kitchen without bumping into anything, the complete absence of tension. Two weeks ago, I wasn't sure this could work. Now I can't imagine mornings any other way.
I love that they both try to have breakfast with me after a night shift. Reid has to rush off usually, but for a few minutes, it's all of us, together. Connected.
We're starting to feel like a family.
Blake slides a plate in front of me. Two pancakes, butter already melting, syrup on the side because he learned I like to control my own syrup distribution. Such a small thing. Such a Blake thing, noticing details like that.
"You're off tonight, right?" he asks, settling into the chair across from us with his own plate.
"Yeah.."
He nods, and I catch the slight furrow between his brows. He's been watching me more carefully lately. They both have. I know I look tired—the night shift is starting to catch up with me in ways it didn't used to.
"I've got to put in some hours in the workshop today," Blake says. "Hendricks wants his mantelpiece by Friday."
"The Victorian restoration?" Reid asks.
"Yeah. I'm close, but the detail work is killing me." Blake rubs the back of his neck. "Might be another late one tonight."
That's been the pattern this week. Blake's been chasing a deadline, which means workshop time stretches into the evening hours. I miss him when he's out there, but I also love watching him disappear into his work. There's something about the way his whole body changes when he's focused on a project—like all that restless energy finally has somewhere to go.
Other than being channeled into me I mean. Because he does that very very well.
"We'll save you dinner," I say.
Blake's eyes soften when he looks at me. "Yeah?"
"Obviously."
Reid's hand finds my knee under the table. "She's been domesticating us, Moore. Haven't you noticed?"
"I've noticed my fridge has actual vegetables in it for the first time in years."
"Right! Who knew there was a whole food group we were missing?"
I laugh at how ridiculous they are. Both of them. They've made room for me in so many ways. Yeah, I have my own room, not that I've slept there. But there's a hook just for my coat by the door, and a spot for my boots on the rack. Tiny things. But all those tiny things add up.
My apartment feels like a storage unit now. I've slept there maybe three nights in the past two weeks, and each time I couldn't wait to come back here.
Home. The word keeps surfacing, and I keep shoving it down because it feels too big, too fast. But sitting here with syrup on my lips and Reid's hand warm on my knee and Blake watching me with that quiet intensity of his—it doesn't feel fast at all. It feels like something that was always going to happen.
The conversation flows, then jumps, and eventually it's just me and Blake sitting at the table, plates pushed to the side. And I can't stop the giant, jaw cracking yawn.
"Bed time, baby," Blake says, voice low. And I don't fight him, not even a little bit, as he pulls me up the stairs and into his room.
I go willingly, letting him tug me toward the bed. I know what's coming, and my belly clenches low and tight. "I'm not even that tired yet."
"Liar." His hands find my hips, pulling me against him. "You've got circles under your eyes."
"Rude."
