It hasn’t consumed me, not fully. Not with Reid here, not with the baby kicking and the nursery painted and the storm of our life beginning to settle. But it hums in the background like white noise, just loud enough to keep me alert. Sharp enough to remind me that nothing is promised.
Still, I’m tired of waiting, and I want answers. I want closure. I want to know what kind of future I’m walking back into and what kind of woman I get to be on the other side of this.
The shed door creaks, and I hear heavy steps. Reid emerges, arms full of something boxy and old, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he maneuvers it up the porch steps.
He’s drenched in sweat, dirt streaked on his cheek, hair shoved back by the same blue headband he’s been wearing since training camp.
I don’t know how he still looks good. I want to blame the hormones, but I think he’s just always been this solid. An annoyingly magnetic blend of control and chaos.
He sets the box down, dusts off his hands, and immediately zeroes in on me.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, brow furrowing at the sight of my non-elevated feet.
“Iamresting.”
“With your legs down.”
“I’m not dangling them off a cliff.”
“They’re supposed to be elevated.”
“Well… gravity exists.”
He mutters something that sounds likestubborn menace of a womanand crouches in front of me, large hands reaching for the laces of my sneakers.
I let him. Mostly because bending down feels like a battle right now, and also because he does this thing—this unbelievably soft, absurdly tender thing—where he unties my shoes like it’s a privilege.
“You gonna paint my toenails again, too?” I tease, nudging his shoulder with my foot once it’s free.
His eyes flick up to mine, mouth twitching. “Only if you want sparkles this time.”
“Absolutely not. You ruined two pairs of socks.”
“I regret nothing.”
I shake my head, but I don’t stop smiling, because this is us now.
This strange, sweet rhythm we’ve built over the past few weeks—him halfway feral with protection, while I learn how to let someone care for me without it feeling like control.
There’s been grief, yes. Gutting, impossible grief. But there’s been gentleness too. A tenderness in the aftermath.
And there’s been him.
Tying my laces every morning because my center of gravity is garbage. Cooking like he thinks I’ll waste away if I’m not force-fed scrambled eggs or another goddamn bagel. Bringing home burgers with ketchup word ideas written on the lid, which areway too detailed to ever fit on a burger bun—Mama Havoc,Doc + Tot,Can’t Stop the Bump.
Once, he wroteGremlin’s Sister, and I nearly peed laughing.
He freaks out if I get even a little lightheaded. Drops everything to make me sit down, lie back, breathe. He’s militant about hydration and won’t let me climb the stairs without a full safety briefing.
And twice a week, without fail, he kneels at the edge of our bed with a little bottle of polish and painstakingly repaints my toenails like it’s some sacred ritual passed down through generations.
I think he likes doing it.
IknowI like watching him do it.
And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I’m not carrying everything on my own.
I watch him now, this man I thought would never be mine, as he settles beside me and wipes the sweat from his brow with the edge of his shirt.
