“Keep your knife on you the whole time?”
Her brow creases, lips forming another frown that tells him everything he needs to know about how willing she’d be to use it. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
The relief on her face is worth the temporary resolution, even if he still has his doubts.
She slides the knife under her pillow, and that gives him a small glimmer of hope that she could fend him off if it came to that. “Get some rest. We can make eggs for breakfast tomorrow if you want. They left us a dozen.”
Eggs for breakfast.
Breakfast.
Like it’s a normal thing that happens when nothing normal has happened in forever.
Her misplaced faith in him is on full display when she falls asleep in under an hour, but it takes him far longer until exhaustion finally wins.
He can’t stop staring at her. It’s probably creepy, but the only time it’s safe to look is when her eyes are closed and he doesn’t waste the chance.
Kara is a painting even more beautiful than anything he could create in his own mind. He takes in every detail from the slope of her nose, to the way her hands curl up under her chin while she sleeps, and how those pink lips he’s dreamed of every night part the slightest bit.
He didn’t dream last night. Fatigue kept his nightmares away, so he’ll sacrifice the dreams if he must.
Wade even loves how she snorts herself awake the next morning, wrinkling her nose before granting him a smile that cracks into a yawn. The moment he’s spotted watching her, he looks away as if caught in the middle of a horrible crime.
“I’ll start on breakfast. There’s a bathroom down the hall. You can come find me in the kitchen when you’re ready or I’ll bring the food in here. Either is okay.”
When he’s ready. Will he ever be?
He has a horrible case of separation anxiety the moment she’s out of sight, and yet he’s anchored to the bed. Has to piss like a racehorsebut he isn’t allowed to leave his cell.
No, no, he’s not there anymore. He’s in the blue house with Kara.
He runs his hands over the sheets, light and soft under his palms. He never had sheets in the cell.
Touches the petals of the small flower still waiting in its cup. No one brought him flowers before.
He inhales the musty scent of a house left to sit for who knows how long. His space always smelled metallic, either from his own blood or someone else’s as it seeped down the hall or under the door.
It’s really her. He can leave the room if he wants to, even if it feels like a monumental task.
Biology forces him forward. She’s already had to clean up his vomit once. He’s not about to take that to another level. There’s an odd sort of tremble that zings from his feet to the back of his neck as he rises from the bed. It’s a warning bell that only sounds when he’s doing something forbidden and it takes every effort not to stop halfway across the room and rush back.
You’re a grown man, for fuck’s sake. Just find the bathroom and quit your quivering,is what he tells himself.
One step, then two. He peeks around the door as if Silas is waiting to drag him back where he belongs, then bolts to his goal. He takes the quickest piss of his life before getting stuck staring at his reflection in the mirror on his way out.
The man looking back has him frozen solid. His hair is a mess, and his body is a disheveled road map spelling out what’sbeen done to him. Every pothole and crack in the pavement is etched into his skin from his shoulders down to the waistband of the sweatpants he wears.
What is she doing here with him? Locked in this house for who knows how long, away from anyone she might be missing, and for what?
His heart sinks at knowing she’s seen him like this. He grabs a towel to scrub at leftover dirt the river failed to wash away. It won’t come off. He rubs frantically until a growl of frustration escapes and he tosses the towel against the wall. Braces his hands on the sink and tries to gather himself before escaping to the bedroom again.
Come find me when you’re ready, she said, but he’s not ready. He sits with his head between his arms that hang off bent knees, too overwhelmed to do anything but make himself lightheaded with his own inhales. He falters for something grounding. Grabs the flower from its cup, but even that fails this time, and the need to call out for Kara nearly wins before he throttles that impulse. He can handle this. He’s fine. He’s safe now. There’s no logical reason he’s currently having a meltdown.
Nothing happened. No one hurt him. He’s overreacting to thin air, but knowing that doesn’t put a dent in the panic attack.
The relief at seeing her again is tempered by the fact that he knows he’s a complete disaster.
