She laughs, ducking her head. "I've gained like fifteen pounds. The food here was actually decent, and they wouldn't let me skip meals."
"Good." I tip her chin up, making her meet my eyes. "You're getting those curves back. Won't be long before you're filling out those jeans the way you used to."
A blush creeps up her cheeks. "I hope so. I want to be healthy again. For me. For the baby."
"You will be. You already are."
Patricia clears her throat behind us, and I remember we're not alone.
The counselor is smiling, her eyes warm as she watches us.
"Take care of her," she says to me. "And Vanna—remember what we talked about. One day at a time. Call if you need anything."
Vanna hugs her—a real hug, the kind that speaks to weeks of hard work and trust built between them. "Thank you. For everything."
"You did the work. I just helped you find the tools." Patricia squeezes her hands. "Now go. Your husband's been counting down the minutes."
I grab Vanna's bag with one hand and lace my fingers through hers with the other.
Together, we walk out of the facility and into the cold January morning.
She stops on the sidewalk, tilting her face up to the sky.
Her eyes close, and she takes a deep breath—the kind of breath that fills your whole body.
"I forgot what fresh air smelled like," she says quietly. "Real fresh air. Not filtered through a building."
"Smells like freedom."
She laughs, opening her eyes. "Smells like snow."
"That too." I tug her toward the truck. "Come on. Let's get you home before the storm hits."
The drive back to Morgantown is everything the drive here wasn't.
Vanna sits in the passenger seat with her hand in mine, our fingers intertwined on the center console.
She watches the scenery pass—the bare trees, the rolling hills, the occasional farmhouse tucked into the landscape—like she's seeing it all for the first time.
Maybe she is.
The last time she made this drive, she was in the grip of withdrawal, too sick and scared to notice anything beyond her own misery.
"Tell me about the clubhouse," she says after we've been on the road for an hour. "What's it like now? What's changed?"
"The garage is doing well. We've got more work than we can handle, actually. Ruger's been talking about bringing on another mechanic, maybe expanding."
"That's good. That's really good." She squeezes my hand.
I glance at her, watching her reaction. "I kept all your stuff. Everything you left behind. It's all still there."
Her eyes fill with tears. "You kept it?"
"Of course I kept it. You're my wife, Van. Even when you weren't there, you were still my wife."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring out the window.
When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't deserve you."
