“Good answer.”
Relief flooded through me so fast my throat ached. She was giving something better than anything I could have asked for: not forgiveness, not even redemption, but a chance to build something with her instead of tearing it apart.
25
Nina
Iwoke earlier than I had back when I’d leave the house before sunrise just to catch the bus. The apartment was quiet, the kind of stillness that made every sound sharp, so I padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
In the living room, the side lamp shone a soft-yellow lighting, bringing my focus to Lincoln. He was out cold on the couch, knees hooked over the armrest, toes twitching in deep sleep. He was shirtless, the dark lines of his “Songbird” tattoo stretching over his ribs, one wing visible between his splayed fingers. His chest rose and fell with every slow breath, dragging my eyes down the plane of his chest. He wasn’t packed with pretentious muscles, just lean, whipcord-strong, built for a speed to match the slicing of his sharp tongue. A fine trail of hair started just below his waistband, disappearing at his navel before reappearing in light curls at his chest.
Goosebumps prickled his skin, hair on his forearms standing up as I lingered there too long, memorizing the exact ridge of his collarbone, the hollow between his ribs, the faint shadow of a scar across his ribs on his right side. Blinking to pull myself outof this stalkerish tendency I didn’t realize I had, I grabbed the throw blanket and knelt by the couch.
I’d barely brushed the wool over his side when he jerked upright.
His chest heaved, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes wide and unfocused, as if he hadn’t just woken from sleep but from a nightmare he’d been running from.
“Hey,” I muttered, hands up, the blanket forgotten between us. “It’s just me.”
He blinked, shoulders still tight, hands flexing, patting the couch. Finally, he exhaled, long and shaky. “Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not a deep sleeper. Not anymore.”
I hesitated to ask, but he shared anyway, his jaw tensing as he added, “My dad thought nighttime was the best time to teach me lessons.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it, just let the words hang there. Facts of his existence, and not the kind of truth that should crack a person open. I felt it then, the Lincoln-shaped space he’d carved in my chest, expanding to take up just a bit more room. I sat on the couch next to him and wrapped us in the throw, his flesh brushing mine in our unusual closeness.
“I thought you’d sleep in your room.”
He shook his head. “That room is farther from yours.” He tilted his head to the wall shared with my bedroom behind the couch. “I’m here to make sure your breath doesn’t even hitch.”
There was a cocky smile, teasing just the smallest dip of his dimples, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“And how would you know?”
He shrugged, leaning back into the couch cushions, the throw sliding down and baring his chest again. “Your breathing gets bad at night,” he said, voice low. “Sometimes, you don’t even notice.”
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his sternum, casual, as if he wasn’t admitting to listening for me while I slept.
“And?” I asked, though my chest had gone tight.
His hand drifted lower, splaying across his ribs, fingers curling over the edge of the “Songbird” tattoo. “I don’t like that room anymore.” His thumb pressed into the ink, leaving half-moon marks over the curling notes. “I entertained people who hurt you in there.”
My throat closed. “Lincoln…”
He glanced up, catching my eyes. “When you’re better, I want to sell this place.” His expression flickered, open and unguarded. “I know there’s no redo. But there doesn’t have to be this many reminders all the time.”
His other hand curled around his knee.
“You don’t owe me that,” I murmured.
“Don’t care,” he shot back, quiet but stubborn.
The throw slipped from my shoulders, revealing the faint scar marring his ribs, pale and uneven. My fingers ached to follow it, feel the jagged history of him. To smooth out the frown between his brows. To tell him this was the first time in weeks I hadn’t woken up overwhelmed by loneliness.
But the words caught in my throat. All I managed was “Maybe. But that room was also where you stopped being just someone who hurt me—and became someone who hurt with me.”
His breath hitched. Not sharp, not defensive, just quiet.
After an extensive back-and-forthand taking medicine under his watchful eye, Lincoln went to get a few things from my old apartment—hisnow. I’d curled deeper into the throw blanket,inhaler still warm in my hand. When the knock came, I half expected him, instead it was Lynnie standing in the doorway with Reality Bites goodies, and an expression I couldn’t read.
