Page 51 of Finding Peace
“Meant ya to.”
Lawson moves to Jasper’s other side. “I don’t need help,” Jasper protests as both men grab him anyway.
“Sure you don’t,” Beau replies.
“Do you want me to punch you?”
“You can barely stand anymore, let alone punch him,” Lawson grumbles.
“I’mfine.”
“You’relimping.”
“I am not.”
Beau shakes his head. “You absolutely are. Now shut the fuck up and let’s go inside.”
Lincoln shakes his head and starts walking toward the house as the three of them continue to bicker on their way up the steps. Regardless of his pain, Jasper takes a second to scratch Lucy’s head as she greets them once they open the door.
I stay behind for a second, watching.
Lincoln slows when he realizes I’m not beside him, before turning and walking back.
Once he stops in front of me, without a word, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. His lips linger for longer than necessary, and I can’t help but feel warmth wash over my body.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?” I ask quietly.
“For staying.”
There’s more in that sentence than he says out loud.
For trusting us.
For choosing us.
For not running when I probably should have.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I say, my throat tightening.
But he gives me that small, steady look—one that sees more than I want him to—before stepping back.
“Let’s go inside. We’ll get the rest of your stuff in the morning,” he says gently.
And as he leads me to the big house, I go.Willingly.
Jasper complained the entire time Beau reset his nose—rightfully so. He swore he didn’t need ice afterwards. Swore he didn’t need painkillers. Swore he didn’t need help undressing.
Yet, he let us do it anyway.
And when he finally crashed, it was fast and heavy.
Now the guest bedroom is dim, lit only by the small lamp on the nightstand. The bathroom light spills warm and golden against the tile as I lean in front of the mirror, brushing out my damp hair.
Steam still clings to my skin, and the oversized T-shirt I’m wearing hangs loose against my thighs as I stare at myself for a long moment. It strikes me then, how long it’s been since I’ve had to stand in a mirror and catalogue the way my body looks. Every cut. Every bruise. Now all that I see when I stare in the mirror is the woman looking back at me and how much I’ve changed.
How much I’ve continued to change.
