That was the closest I had come to recovering a memory.
There had been no image.
No scene.
Only direction.
Find him.
I woke late that afternoon with my right hand tucked inside Reid’s.
For several seconds, I remained still.
Rain whispered against the windows. Somewhere below, something heavy struck concrete, followed by a curse that sounded like Caleb. Marlowe slept on the rug with his paws twitching through some private chase.
Reid sat beside me.
His head rested against the back of the couch. His eyes were closed.
He looked exhausted.
I had noticed that even in the hospital.
The shadows beneath his eyes.
The sharper planes of his face.
The constant readiness in his shoulders, as though disaster had become something he expected to walk through the door.
I shifted my hand.
His fingers closed around mine at once.
His eyes opened.
“You’re awake.”
“So are you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“You were.”
“I was resting.”
“That is what elderly men say before falling asleep in chairs.”
His mouth curved.
I liked his mouth.
That had become inconvenient.
Before we kissed, I could pretend my attraction to Reid was theoretical. He was objectively handsome. Broad through the shoulders, strong without being polished, silver beginning at his temples. His beard looked rougher than it felt beneath my fingers. Weariness had carved something compelling into his face.
Then he kissed me.
Nothing about that had been theoretical.
