This one felt like proof. Proof that I’d been out there. That I’d taken up space. That I’d been hit and hadn’t stopped.
The shower was hot and heavenly, easing the worst of the ache out of my muscles. I stood there longer than I meant to, letting the water wash away the noise and fear and adrenaline, until I felt almost human again.
When I finally came out wrapped in a towel around my hair, Alex was waiting in his living room like some kind of soft-hearted battlefield medic.
His coffee table was covered in supplies. Ibuprofen, ice packs, a heating pad, and a glass of water were ready for me.
He looked up at me, all gentle concern and warm eyes. “Okay,” he said. “What do you need?”
My chest did something stupid and tender.
I walked toward him slowly, feeling sore and proud and oddly brave all at once.
I sank down onto the couch beside him, moving carefully like my body was made of glass instead of bone and muscle. Alex knelt in front of the coffee table, popping open a bottle of ibuprofen and handing me two pills and the glass of water.
“Here,” he said softly.
I took them, then reached for one of the ice packs and pressed it to my hip with a grateful sigh. “You didn’t have to do all this,” I murmured.
“You got hit by a freight train in roller skates,” he said. “I absolutely had to do all this.”
I huffed a weak laugh, then winced. “I’m sorry I kind of . . . ruined our date.”
He looked at me like I’d just suggested setting a puppy on fire. “Nonsense. You didn’t ruin anything.”
Before I could argue, he leaned forward and lit a small candle on the coffee table. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped a few things, and soft, low music drifted into the room.
And right on cue, there was a knock at the door.
Alex’s mouth curved into that smug, sweet smile. He went to answer it and came back carrying two to-go containers and a paper bag that smelled like heaven.
“Chicken parm and breadsticks,” he said. “From the place I was going to take you to.”
I swooned. Of course, he’d planned this. Of course, he’d thought ahead. Of course, he’d pivoted without making me feel like I’d failed him.
God, he was perfect.
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Alex froze. “Oh—fuck. Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I said quickly, wiping at my face. “No, it’s fine. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m just . . . ignore me.”
“You had a big day,” he said gently as he handed me one of the containers. “Big emotions. Big hits.”
I nodded, because it was easier than explaining the truth.
The truth was messier. I liked him. Maybe more than liked him. And that felt dangerous, like I was stepping onto sacred ground that still belonged to Ethan. Like wanting this, him, this life, was somehow a betrayal.
I was sore and scared and falling for a man who kept showing up for me, and I didn’t know how to hold all of that at once.
So I didn’t.
I opened the container and took a bite.
The chicken was hot and perfect, the sauce rich and comforting, and it made me feel just a little more real again.
Alex smiled at me across the coffee table, warm and hopeful. “So,” he asked softly, “how does it feel being a Reaper?”
