Page 179 of Buried in Blood
I smirk, peeling the lid off my own tray and settling into the chair beside her. “Only the best for survivors of cult-run death auctions and psychopathic boyfriends.”
She snorts. It’s soft, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in days.
We eat in silence for a while. She doesn’t have much of an appetite, picking at her sandwich and sipping water, like it’s all a little too much and not enough at the same time.
Her eyes drift to the window.
Gray clouds. Some sun. A quiet afternoon that doesn’t feel borrowed anymore.
After a minute, she speaks.
“I don’t want a white picket fence.”
I glance at her. She’s still watching the sky like it might hold answers.
“I don’t want a ring. Or a house with a “welcome” mat. Or some kid calling me “mom”, like I wouldn’t shatter if they touched me too hard.”
I nod, but I stay quiet. Let her say what she needs.
“I don’t want tobuildanything,” she continues, voice low, like she’s confessing something terrible. “I just want toexist. I want to wake up and not be afraid. I want to eat good food. Watch terrible movies. Walk outside and not feel like I’m being hunted.”
She turns to me then, and her eyes are so honest it hurts.
“I want to feel like I survived for a reason. Not to become someone else’s version of whole—but just to bemine.”
The lump in my throat rises fast.
I reach for her hand across the tray, our fingers tangling the way they always should have—like they were built for this.
“That’s the only future I want too,” I say. “No performances. No promises I can’t keep. Just you.”
Her lip quivers. She blinks hard and forces a shaky smile. “We’ll be terrible at normal.”
“I don’t want normal,” I murmur. “I wantyou.”
Her thumb grazes my knuckles.
Outside, the sky brightens a little. Not blue. Not perfect. But better.
“I don’t know how to be okay,” she whispers.
I lean closer, my voice low and certain. “Then we’ll figure out how to benot okaytogether.”
She lets out a slow breath.
And this time—when she takes another bite of that sad excuse for grilled cheese—it’s not out of survival.
It’s a choice.
53
Lucien
There’s something about this kind of silence that feels earned.
Not the sharp silence of waiting for a war to start. Not the heavy silence of when a door slams and someone you love doesn’t come back.
This silence is warm. Mellow. The kind that seeps into your bones after a long storm and tells you you’re safe now.
