Page 192 of What We Brave
And this house. These mornings. Reid's terrible coffee and Blake's silent pancake deliveries and the way they both just... make space for me without asking for anything back. And the way Blake puts me to sleep after breakfast. More magic.
What if switching shifts ruins the magic? What if I lose the mornings and come home exhausted at night and realize I screwed up the only good thing I've built?
I lock the phone. Shove it face-down on the mattress.
I need to move.
Blake's t-shirt is draped over the chair in the corner. I pull it on now, breathing in the smell of him, and pad out into the quiet house.
My stuff is everywhere. A sweater on the back of the couch. My favorite mug in the dish rack. A pair of my shoes by the front door. When did that happen? When did I stop being a guest and start just... living here?
I wander through the rooms, taking inventory. Reid's book on the coffee table, bookmark halfway through. Blake's reading glasses folded next to the TV remote. A grocery list on the fridge in my handwriting—I don't even remember writing it.
We've built something here. Something real and strange and wonderful. And I'm terrified to change anything. I don't think we're that fragile, at least I hope we're not, but I'm not brave enough to test it yet.
The workshop hitsme with a wall of warm air when I push through the door, Blake's plate balanced in one hand. He's bent over the workbench, sanding something with the kind of focus that blocks out the entire world, and he doesn't hear me come in.
So I just stand there. Watching him. The way his shoulders move under his t-shirt. The furrow between his brows. There's sawdust in his hair, on his forearms, catching the evening light coming through the window.
This is Blake in his element. All that coiled energy actually going somewhere useful, somewhere good. The mantelpiece taking shape under his hands is stunning—intricate Victorian scrollwork that must have taken hours.
"You going to stand there staring, or are you going to feed me?"
I jump. He hasn't looked up, but there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"How did you know I was here?"
"You breathe loud."
"How dare you! I donot."
Now he does look up, and the softness in his expression makes my chest tight. "Nah. I just know when you're nearby. Can't explain it."
I cross to the workbench, setting his plate down in a clear spot. "Reid made pasta. There's garlic bread too, but I ate most of it on the walk over."
"Savage."
"Delivery fee."
He sets down the sandpaper and pulls me in by the waist, heedless of the sawdust covering his hands. I'll have to wash this shirt now. I don't care.
"Thank you." He presses a kiss to my hair. "For bringing it out."
"Couldn't let you starve."
"I've survived on less."
I'm sure he has. More than once. And my heart aches just thinking about it. I like doing things for him. Taking care of him. "That's not the flex you think it is."
He laughs, low and warm, and I lean into him. We stand there for a moment, wrapped up in each other, his chin resting on top of my head. Through the workshop window, I can see the house lit up against the darkening sky. Reid's probably doing dishes. Later, we'll all end up on the couch together, or maybe— we haven't had a repeat of that night all together. It's good, I think. My relationship with both men has gotten deeper. But it was so hot. I kinda want a repeat, but I don't know how to ask for it.
Or maybe the timing's been wrong.
"I'm going to be another late one tonight," Blake says, pulling back enough to look at me. "Sorry. I'm so close to done, but these last details..."
"It's okay." And it is. "The piece is beautiful. Your client's going to lose his mind."
"That's the goal." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Don't wait up for me, okay? You need sleep."
