Page 55 of What We Brave
"Always," he says, pushing off the locker. He pats my cheek—a hard, solid slap that stings just enough to ground me. "Now get out of here. Go home. Eat something that isn't wrapped in plastic."
The house isdark when I pull into the driveway.
Blake's truck is gone, which means he's still down at the encampment. He’s been spending three, four nights a week there, handing out supplies, doing basic medical checks, fixing tents. Hatch was right about him—he needed a mission. He needed to feel useful again. It's sure as fuck better than hanging around here. Spending too much time alone, in his own head, is a bad idea.
Hell, it's a shitty idea for me too.
I unlock the front door and flip the lights on. The silence doesn't bother me as much as it used to. It feels peaceful tonight.
I drop my bag by the stairs and head for the kitchen. Mystomach is hollowed out, so I pull ingredients from the fridge. Peppers, onions, the leftover steak from Tuesday. I get the cast iron skillet hot, waiting until the oil shimmers before tossing the vegetables in.
The sizzle fills the room. I'm getting a hang of this cooking thing. I've been trying to not leave so much on Blake's shoulders. So the cooking channel and videos have been on a steady rotation for the last few weeks.
Turns out, it's not as hard as I thought. That's probably thanks to Laine. She's the best, most patient teacher I've ever had. Prettiest too.
While the peppers soften, I check my phone. No messages. I open my text thread with Laine. The last message is from months ago.
I type out:Thinking of you.
My thumb hovers over the send button.
Don't push,asshole.You promised her you wouldn't push.
I delete the text and toss the phone onto the counter. Patience. That's the mission. Prove I'm solid. Prove I can handle the complications. Prove that Blake being here isn't a threat to us but a part of the package she can trust again.
I plate my food, then grab a second container. Scoop a massive portion of stir-fry into it — extra steak, extra peppers — and snap the lid on. Set it on the center of the middle shelf in the fridge, right where he can't miss it.
Eat something, brother.
I'm just forking the first bite into my mouth when the back door handle jiggles.
Cold air slices through the kitchen as the door swings open. The wind howls for a second before the door slams shut behind him.
Blake stands on the mat.
He looks like he’s been in a wreck. His face is gray, drained of all blood. His hair is a mess, windblown and wild, and he’s shivering so hard I can see the tremors from across the room.
He’s staring at the floor, his chest heaving like he just sprinted a mile.
"Jesus," I say, dropping my fork. I'm off the stool in a second, closing the distance between us. "Blake?"
He doesn't look up. He’s gripping the strap of his bag so tight his knuckles are white.
"Rough night?" I ask, keeping my voice low. Calm. Professional. I don't know what I'm dealing with, but he's on the verge of shock, that much is for sure.
He nods, a jerky, mechanical motion.
I stop a few feet away, assessing him. No visible blood. No injuries I can see. But the smell coming off him is intense—woodsmoke, and the sharp, sour scent of cold sweat.
"Was it the kid again?" I ask. There was a young vet he’d been worried about last week. "Or did something happen with the cops?"
"No," he croaks. His voice is wrecked. "Just... cold. It's cold."
"Yeah, it's freezing out there." I step closer, reaching out to take the bag from his shoulder. "Let me take this. I made food. It's in the?—"
My hand brushes his arm.
He flinches so violently he almost hits the wall.
