Page 143 of Almost Ours
I reached out, brushing my fingers against her arm, needing the reassurance that she was real. That she was here. The warmth of her soft skin calmed me, but only just. Sleep barely came since the night Reid showed up.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. Sitting in that armchair, bruised and bleeding. Reid pulling the gun. The chaos that followed. The moment she fell–her body crumpling as blood bloomed through her shirt like a terrible flower.
I could still feel it. The slick warmth of her blood on my hands as I tried to stop the bleeding. My voice, raw and desperate, screaming her name, begging her to stay awake. Her lashes fluttering shut as I pressed down harder. The metallic tang of blood thick in the air. The sound of my own panicked shouts echoing in my ears.
In the nightmares, I never saved her. In the nightmares, she was gone.
I squeezed my eyes shut, dragging a hand down my face. Sleep wasn’t an option now. Careful not to wake her, I eased out of bed. She didn’t stir, and I exhaled a quiet breath of relief before slipping downstairs.
In the kitchen, I filled a glass of water and leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the darkened yard. My chest felt tight, the guilt pressing down like a weight I couldn’t shake. I wasn’t there when Reid showed up. I wasn’t there to stop him.
I knew–logically–it wasn’t my fault. It was Reid’s. All of it. Logic didn’t matter when the memories came rushing back, though.
“Ryan?” Her voice was soft, laced with sleep, and when I turned, I found her standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Her hair was tousled, falling loose around her face, but it wasn’t just sleep that marked her features. The sling still cradled her left arm, the dark fabric stark against the pale skin of her hand. Bruises ghosted along her cheekbones and near her jaw, yellow and purple blending into one another, like shadows that hadn’t yet let go.
Even so, she looked steady, worry etched into her expression, her green eyes fixed on me with a quiet intensity that made my throat tighten.
“Hey,” I said, my voice hoarse. “What are you doing up?”
She tilted her head. “Could ask you the same thing.”
Her steps were quiet on the floor as she crossed toward me, the loose hem of her sweater brushing against her thighs, her good hand reaching out toward me.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice gentler now.
“I’m fine,” I replied automatically, too fast, too easy.
Her eyes searched mine for a beat too long. And I knew what she was really asking. I also knew I couldn’t give her the real answer. Not yet.
Not when I was still afraid of what else I might say if I started talking.
So I reached for her instead, gently tugging her into my arms. And when she settled against me, warm and solid, I buried my face in her hair and just breathed her in.
After a moment, the words came out, low and certain, the kind you don’t always get right the first time. “I love you, Harper.”
She went still in my arms, and I felt her intake of breath against my shoulder. Her hand–careful, slow–lifted to my jaw and she tipped her face up so she could look at me. For a second her eyes were wet and unreadable. “You said that–” she whispered, voice trembling. “When I… I thought maybe I’d dreamed it. I heard you say it, and I couldn’t tell if it was real.
“I’m not asking you to say it back,” I said quickly, because the last thing I wanted was to shove anything on her. My thumb stroked the ridge of her wrist. “I just needed you to know.”
She searched my face like she was cataloguing every line, every mark. Then the tightness in her mouth finally eased, and she let out a small, breathy laugh that turned into something like a sob and a smile all at once. “I love you too.”
The words landed between us like a small, fierce thing. I held her tighter, as if the pressure of my arms could anchor us both in that truth.
After a moment, I steadied myself, the words falling out before I could overthink them. “I want to tell Connor about us.”
Her head lifted just enough for her eyes to meet mine. “You do?”
“Yeah,” I said, no hesitation. “I want this to be real. I want him to know I’m not just some guy who’s around sometimes. I want him to know I’m here… with you. For both of you.”
Something in her expression softened, but I caught the flicker of thought behind her eyes. She reached up, brushing her fingers lightly along my jaw. “Okay. We can tell him.”
The next morning,I sat at the kitchen table, elbows braced against the wood, fingers laced so tightly my knuckles were white. My stomach was in knots.
What if he hated the idea? What if he didn’t want me and his mom together? Hell, what if it made him look at me differently?
The sound of footsteps pulled me from my spiral. Connor padded into the kitchen, blonde hair sticking up in every direction. He spotted me at the table, didn’t even blink.
