Page 46 of Brash for It
We don’t say the thing that weighs the heaviest.The ex might be a coward with resources, but those kind of men sometimes use their connections for devious intentions.Instead we plan like we always do—practical, step by step.Camera for the porch tomorrow, a heads-up for Trina, a note in the notebook so it doesn’t get lost in the heat of memory.
When dinner is settled in our bellies, we make our way inside to unwind.
In bed, she doesn’t hesitate.She comes to me like a habit that’s good for you.I roll onto my back.She folds across me.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper into her hair.“Sleep.”
“Bossy,” she counters, and I feel her smile against my chest.
“Also true.”
She hums.The sound sits right in the place where the restless usually chews.It doesn’t tonight.Not after that.I stroke her hair without thinking, the rhythm that has become our truce with the dark.
“You know,” she murmurs, sleep climbing her bones, “it felt… good.Not just to yell at him.To not have you fight for me.To do it myself and know you were there if I fell apart.I knew you would take my back but I will always cherish that you gave me the space to fight my own battle.”
“That’s the point,” I explain, and somewhere inside me, a fifteen-year-old kid rebuilding a motor with his dad notes that this is a different version of calm, and it counts just as much.
She’s asleep in minutes.I lay awake longer, because I’m me.I watch the cracks in the ceiling become a map that could lead anywhere.I feel the heat of her on my chest and the heat of earlier in my blood, and I don’t move.I don’t make it about me.I let it sit, quiet.
Morning smells like coffee.I’m up first, because that’s how my bones work.I take the trash to the curb; the bag is heavier than it should be for two people.I pile the dishes we did into the cabinet.I check the front steps for any sign of last night besides the water stain from the hose.Nothing.Good.
Kristen wanders in the kitchen with sleepy hair and a T-shirt that is another one of mine.She yawns, wide, unembarrassed, and pours coffee like a woman who knows how to operate a machine that someone else set up for her on purpose.She takes a sip, grimaces like she always does at my brew, and doctors it into something friendlier.
“You sleep?”I ask even though I know the answer.
“Like someone who doesn’t have a past hauting her.”She leans hip to counter, looks at me over the rim of the mug.
She snorts more to herself than me, then she explains.“We need to buy a new doormat.The old one says WELCOME and that’s wrong.”
“Not wrong,” I reply.“Selective company only.”
“Welcome—unless your name is Brian.”She laughs, then sobers.“Do you think he’ll try something?”
“Maybe.”I don’t lie.“But not today.Pride’s been hurt.He’ll spend a few days telling himself a story about why he’s the hero.Then he’ll get bored.”
“And then?”she presses.
“And then he’ll poke the bear again until he moves on.”I shrug.“We’ll be ready.Cameras.Paper trail.People who answer when you call.”I nod at the phone on the counter, the one I put together and forced into her hand when she thought a thousand dollars was too much to accept.“You got numbers.”
She sets the mug down, steps closer, slides her arms around my waist under the hem of my T-shirt the way she’s learned turns me into a softer man.“I’ve got a person.”
“Two or three,” I remind, because the brothers count, and even my mother if you want to be honest about who shows up with toothbrushes, but one call from anyone who matters to her boys and she walks through fire for us all.
She squeezes.When she tilts her head up, her mouth is soft, night still in it.I kiss her once, morning-slow, only breaking away when I feel her sag into relaxation.Then I blow on the coffee for her when she goes back to it like I can’t help myself.She pretends not to notice.
We make breakfast—eggs in a pan that’s seen better days, toast that the toaster spits out easy.She steals the better piece and I let her.We eat at the table She opens the notebook, flips pastA LIFE THAT CAN’T GET TOWED, and writesBrian—trespass/call if returnsin neat letters.Under that,Porch cameraandtell work about camera install.She draws a small box next to each one; she likes the feel of the check mark.So do I.
Her shift is later today, but she wants to go in early to explain why I have my team coming in for extra security.Mine’s a morning of parts and a brake job that fights back.We ride in the SUV because helmets don’t pair with hair she wants to wear to work today.I pull into the spa’s lot and don’t kill the engine yet.
“You call me if he shows,” I remind.“You call the police first.Then me.Then Trina if you can’t get me.But you’ll get me.”
She nods.“Yes.”
“And if some asshole says ‘white trash’ again within earshot, you throw that word back at him with a question mark.Make him define it.”
She grins.“Yes, sir.”
I lift a brow.“Careful darlin’ I might like that a little too much.”
