He leaned down, bringing his face close to mine, his breath warm against my ear. "Can I get a kiss?" he whispered, the words sending a shiver down my spine. "Been thinking about it the whole drive here."
I set the flowerpot carefully on the bedside table and reached for him without hesitation, my hands finding the soft flannel of his shirt and pulling him closer. "God, yes," I breathed, and then his lips were on mine, warm and certain and perfect.
The kiss was hungry, desperate with three months of separation and longing. His hand cupped my face with exquisite gentleness while his mouth claimed mine with unmistakable possession. I held onto his shirt, wishing I could pull him onto the narrow hospital bed with me, wishing we were anywhere but here with its antiseptic smells and uncomfortable furniture.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing harder, his forehead rested against mine. "Missed you," he murmured, the simple words carrying the weight of ninety-two days apart. Weekend visits just weren’t enough.
"Missed you more," I countered, unwilling to release my grip on his shirt, as if he might disappear if I let go.
Harlow straightened slightly, his eyes searching mine with that direct, honest gaze that had disarmed me from our first meeting. "Ready to go home?" he asked, hope and something like nervousness coloring his voice.
"More than ready," I said, glancing around the room that had been my prison for too long. "Already signed the discharge papers. Just waiting for you to show up and spring me from this joint."
The smile that spread across his face was like sunrise breaking over the mountains—warm and bright and full of promise. "Then let's go," he said, squeezing my hand gently. "Time to get you home."
Home. The word hung between us, complicated by my destroyed apartment and uncertain future. But looking at Harlow's face, I realized home might not be a place at all. Maybe it was a person. Maybe it had been all along.
Harlow moved with unexpected purpose, grabbing my duffel bag from the end of the bed with one hand and my hand with the other. No hesitation, no awkward shuffling or questions about whether I needed help. Just that quiet confidence that had first drawn me to him, now directed at getting me the hell out of this hospital room.
It was sexy as all get-out, and I found myself following his lead without a second thought.
"Let's go," he said, his deep voice brooking no argument as he tugged me toward the door. "Sooner we leave, sooner you're free."
A nurse appeared in the doorway, wheelchair in tow, her expression that practiced mix of friendliness and authority that medical professionals perfect. "Deputy Latham, hospital policy requires—"
"No wheelchair," I interrupted, squeezing Harlow's hand. "I've been walking laps around this floor for weeks. I'm fully capable of making it to the parking lot on my own two feet."
She looked like she wanted to argue, glancing between us with a furrowed brow. Her eyes landed on our joined hands, and something in her expression softened.
"Well, technically you're already discharged," she conceded. "Just be careful with those stitches, and remember to schedule your follow-up with Dr. Brenner."
"Already done," I assured her, eager to escape before she changed her mind.
Harlow nodded his thanks to her as we slipped past, his large frame somehow making me feel both protected and exposed at the same time. My thumb traced circles on the back of his hand as we walked down the corridor, past the nurses' station where several staff members waved goodbye, past rooms with patients who hadn't yet earned their freedom.
The elevator ride to the ground floor was quiet, just the two of us and an elderly woman who smiled at our joined hands with knowing eyes. Outside, summer sunshine hit me like a physical force after months under fluorescent lighting. I stopped for a moment, closing my eyes and tilting my face up to absorb the warmth.
Freedom tasted like fresh air and possibility.
"Feels good, huh?" Harlow asked, his voice gentle.
"You have no idea," I breathed, opening my eyes to find him watching me with a tenderness that made my throat tight.
He tugged me forward again, leading me across the parking lot to a truck I didn't recognize. It was a Ford F-150, maybe ten years old, dark blue with a few dings in the passenger door and a small dent in the rear quarter panel. Not new by any stretch, but solid-looking and clean.
"You drove?" I asked, confused. In all his hospital visits, Harlow had always been driven by one of his brothers, usually Knox. He'd mentioned something about not being comfortable driving in city traffic, preferring the familiar roads around McKenzie River.
"Knox drove me," he explained, stopping beside the truck. "Newt followed in their truck. They already headed back to thefarm." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, which he tossed to me in a gentle arc.
I caught them reflexively, frowning in confusion. "What's this?"
Harlow nodded toward the truck. "Yours."
"Mine?" I repeated stupidly, looking from the keys to the truck and back again. "What do you mean, mine?"
"Yours," he said again, moving to the passenger side and opening the door. "Get in. I'll explain."
Still bewildered, I circled to the driver's side and climbed in, settling behind the wheel. The interior was clean but showed signs of wear—a small tear in the leather of the driver's seat, a scratch on the dashboard. I inserted the key, and the engine roared to life immediately, settling into a steady purr that spoke of good maintenance despite its age.
