Page 197 of Buried in Blood
She looks down at her hands. “I had a dream I was still in the hospital. But it was quiet. You were there.”
“I never left.”
She leans her head back against the headboard, exhaling slowly. “Feels real now.”
“It is.”
I reach over to the tray I set up earlier and hand her a glass of water. She sips carefully, then presses the cool rim to her forehead, letting it rest there for a second before setting it down.
“Reese…”
I glance at her.
“Why are you doing this?”
There’s no accusation in her voice. Just confusion. Worry. That deep, ingrained sense of reservedness that she carries like a second skin.
“I think the better question is, why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I’m broken,” she says. “Because I ran. Because I shot him. Because—”
“Because you survived,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I meant. “You did what you had to do. And I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life.”
She looks down, blinking hard. “It doesn’t feel brave.”
“No,” I say, “but it was.”
She falls quiet again, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.
I hate seeing her like this—unsure of herself, afraid to take up space. Harmony was always fire. Even when she was scared, she burned. But Damien tried to extinguish that light for so long. It makes me want to set the fucking world on fire in return.
“I made you something,” I say gently.
She looks up. “What?”
“Soup,” I reply with a small grin. “It’s probably cold now, but…”
Her lips twitch into a faint smile. “You cook?”
“I survive. Get your ass stabbed once or twice, and you learn real quick not to rely on takeout.”
Her laugh is so soft, so fleeting, I almost miss it. But it’s there. And it’s mine.
I go heat up the soup while she shifts on the bed. By the time I bring it back in, she’s sitting upright, legs curled beneath her, blanket still pulled around her shoulders.
I place the tray over her lap. “It’s nothing fancy. Chicken and rice. But it’s warm.”
She takes the spoon and dips it into the bowl. Her hand shakes a little, and I resist the urge to help—knowing she needs to do this herself. She eats in slow, careful bites, and I sit across from her, not saying anything, just watching. Just being here.
When she finishes, she leans back, eyes glassy. “That was the best thing I’ve eaten in months.”
I take the tray and set it aside. “Glad to hear it. You’ll be eating real food every day from now on. No more surviving off stale crackers and fear.”
She reaches for my hand, fingers cold against mine. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“About what?”
“ Me. Us. This.”
