Then, carefully, she uses the tip of a fry to scrawl something in the red.
Grow
It’s crooked and messy and a little absurd, but it guts me all the same.
Because fuck, she owns every inch of soil I’ve got.
And I know she’s bad with plants, I know she leaves them behind or forgets about them when life gets loud or busy or stressful. She’s always choosing survival over tending, and here I am, handing her something that needs both.
I don’t know if she’s ready for it, and I don’t know if she’ll stay long enough to see what grows, but I want her to have it. My roots. The dirt under my nails and the parts of me that were planted by Harry’s steadiness and Adele’s laughter, the kind that only grew because someone stayed.
She’s planted herself so deeply in me, I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else.
So I’ll keep standing here, letting her dig her hands into me. Letting myself hope she’ll stay.
Her eyes meet mine across the table as she brings the burger to her mouth, slowly takes a bite, and smiles.
I smile back, taking her in. The swell of her belly. Her gentle hands.
And the pot of ivy, perched on the table beside her.
Chapter twenty-six
I want to give you the fucking world
Carina
Iwake to the sound of a low, persistent buzzing.
For a second, I think it might be the echo of Reid’s hands still on my skin from earlier, but when I roll over, the bed is empty. The covers are still warm, but he’s not here.
His phone buzzes again on the nightstand.
I blink, trying to reassemble the timeline. His hands, his mouth. The fucking shower. My legs still feel like cooked spaghetti, but all I can do is smile to myself as I sit up and reach for the phone.
It’s some kind of alarm with a deeply annoying and unhelpful tone. I fumble with it, still half asleep, thumb sliding uselessly over the glass.
“Okay, rude,” I mutter.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, the phone still buzzing in my hand. My muscles protest lazily as I pad toward the door and step into the hallway, trying to silence the alarm again.
The screen lights up under my thumb as I walk down the stairs, a calendar alert flashing once, then disappearing. I expect to see the clock, maybe a message preview, or an app still running in the background. Instead, I’m staring at the Notes app.
And at the top, the title:Havoc.
My heart stutters, and I know I should lock the phone again, put it down, and leave it alone.
But I don’t, because it’s not just a singular note, it’s dozens, stacked one after another.
Things she likes: ginger peach tea, raspberry danish, the good honey and that song with the cello intro that plays when she’s cooking. Her hair stroked as she falls asleep (don’t overdo it).
Wednesdays = pediatric rotation. Hard on her. Chocolate helps.
