Page 201 of Buried in Blood

“I was pretending to sleep. Your music was too good.”

Reese chuckles, setting the tray on my lap. “Fleetwood Mac again. Don’t act surprised.”

“I’m not. You’ve been in a Stevie Nicks mood for a week.”

“She gets me.”

“I get you.”

He stops mid-motion, eyes on mine, something quiet and tender blooming across his face.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You really do.”

We eat in bed. He tears the roll in half and hands me the bigger piece, no argument. I let my head rest against his shoulder, soaking in the warmth of the coffee, the blanket, his skin.

“You know what I was thinking about this morning?” I ask, licking cinnamon from my fingers.

“If it’s how much you love my ass, I already know.”

I snort. “That’s a given. But no—I was thinking about the first night here. When I couldn’t sleep, and you laid on the floor beside me like it was nothing.”

“I didn’t want you to feel alone.”

“I never do when you’re here.”

He kisses the top of my head. “That’s the point.”

We fall into silence, the comfortable kind. I can hear birds outside, the occasional car rolling past, the world going on around us. But here, in this bed, time slows.

“Do you think we’re okay?” I whisper. “Like… really okay?”

Reese leans back, pulling me with him until I’m half on top of him, my hand resting on his chest.

“Better than okay,” he says. “I think we’re whole.”

“Even with everything we lost?”

He nods. “Especially because of it.”

I bury my face in his chest, letting the quiet stretch again. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, anchoring me.

He hums a little, some song I don’t recognize, and I smile.

Later, we move to the couch, blankets wrapped around us. We don’t turn on the TV. Don’t need to. Just sit, legs tangled, his fingers tracing lazy shapes along my arm.

He asks me what I want for lunch. I tell him nothing. He brings me soup anyway.

We shower together—not in the steamy, movie-scene way, but in the real, beautiful, I’ll-wash-your-hair-and-make-you-feel-safe way. He kisses the scar on my side like it’s sacred. Like it’s a story only he gets to read.

We nap in the afternoon sun, his hand never straying from mine.

We talk about nothing. About everything. About how I wantto learn to garden, and how he wants to build a deck in the backyard for “us” time.

“You say that like you’re gonna stop hovering over me with a rifle,” I tease.

He smirks. “Nah. I’ll just plant lavender while I do it.”

I kiss him then, laughing against his mouth.