Page 87 of When the Smoke Clears
“I’m going for a walk,” Gabe announces, raking a hand through his hair. “Call me when it’s time to spring him.”
“Thank you,” I say, the words too thin for what they’re carrying.
When we’re alone, Isla moves around the bed like a tide—quiet, inevitable. She checks the IV site, scans the dressing on my shoulder with practiced eyes, and folds back the corner of the bandage to peek without peeling it. Her touch is light and sure, and the ground under me steadies.
“Sit,” I tell her, covering her hand with mine. “You’ll do laps otherwise.”
“Professional hazard.” She flashes me a small, sheepish smile that curves something inside my ribs.
“Thank you,” I say. “For all of it.”
“Of course.” Her gaze holds mine without blinking.
“None of this is what you planned when you came back.”
“Not quite.” She huffs a laugh, more breath than sound.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I add, letting the words land where they want.
“Even if it got you shot?” Guilt pools behind her eyes.
“Even then,” I say. “You’re not in this alone now.”
She nods, the most minor dip. “I keep trying to see how it all fits.”
“We will,” I promise.
My shoulder throbs with each heartbeat; the vow holds anyway.
Her eyes stay on mine, searching—measuring the man I am now against the boy I was. “About earlier,” I say, clearing my throat.
Color warms her cheeks. “That was…unexpected.”
“If I crossed—”
“You didn’t.” A quick shake of her head. “I like that side of you.”
“Do you?” I can’t help but smile.
“I’m confused, though,” she admits. “You were so angry. That doesn’t just vanish.”
“No, it doesn’t. But I understand why you did what you did. You didn’t have a choice.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“It means we try,” I say simply. “We’re different people now.”
Her breath leaves her like a held thing finally released, the way a bird looks when you finally open your hand and let it choose. I pat the space beside me. “Come here.”
She fits herself carefully against me, mindful of my shoulder, head on my chest like there’s a groove carved just for it. I trace slow lines through her hair.
She draws circles on my forearm with her fingertip, the motion hypnotic. I close my eyes and count her breaths until mine match.
I wake to pain knifing through my shoulder. Morning light slants across the room in ribbons. Isla stirs, eyelids fluttering, and the pain recedes a fraction just because she’s looking at me.
“Good morning, Beautiful,” I whisper.
“Good morning.” Her voice is raspy-soft. She studies my face, frowns at what she sees there, and cuts her gaze to the clock. “Shit. You were due for pain meds two hours ago.”
