Page 63 of What We Brave
Good fucking question.
I shove my hands in my jacket pockets. "I needed to talk. About—" I don't know how to finish that sentence. About the kiss? About the fact that I've been losing my mind? About the lie sitting in my chest like a tumor?
"About everything," I finish lamely.
Her jaw tightens. "Reid?—"
"Doesn't know I'm here."
Something flickers in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Like she understands exactly what kind of line I'm walking.
The silence stretches. A car passes. Some lunatic bird is hollering above us.
"We could walk," I offer. Moving's good. Better than standing here staring at her like she's everything. "There's a park a few blocks over."
"Come up."
I blink. "What?"
"My apartment." She's already moving toward the entrance, not looking back. "We can talk there."
"Laine—" I catch up in three strides. "You just got off a long shift. I don't want you to feel cornered, or pressured, or?—"
She stops. Turns. Those dark eyes pin me in place.
"Blake. I'm inviting you. Into my home." Each word deliberate. Weighted. "If I felt cornered, I'd tell you to leave."
I search her face. Looking for doubt. Hesitation. Fear.
Find none of it.Thank fucking christ.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Okay."
Her apartment is small.
Not cramped—compact. Efficient. The kind of space where everything has to earn its place or get cut. Galley kitchen opening into a living area. Couch that's seen better days. Bookshelf doing way more work than it was designed for.
Plants on the windowsill. Real ones. The kind that die if you forget about them.
Everything isintentional. Chosen. Like she's been assembling a life piece by piece, trying to build something that might actually last.
I shouldn't fucking be here.
"You can sit," Laine says, dropping her bag by the door. "I'm going to change. Water's in the fridge."
She disappears down a short hallway and her door clicks shut.
I don't sit.
Instead I drift toward the bookshelf. Medical texts. Novels. Travel guides for places I've never heard of. Photo frames tucked between spines—Laine with people I don't recognize, landscapes that could be anywhere.
The same older couple in lots of them. Her parents I assume. There are little bits of them in her. Her mom's smile. Same eyes as her dad.
Not wanting her to catch me creeping, I move on to the plants. I don't know what any of them are called, but there's one bushy fucker that's reaching for the window like it's planning an escape. Some bright pink flowering thing I don't know the name of. And a wide pot with a bunch of little spiny ones.
"They're harder than they look."
I turn. Laine's changed into leggings and an oversized sweater, hair loose now. She looks softer like this. Huggable.
