He noticed my silence.
“I’ll be directly below you.”
“I know.”
“Call me.”
“I know.”
“Marlowe is here.”
“I know.”
Reid stood.
He gathered the dishes.
I watched him carry them to the sink.
His back filled the blue shirt. The muscles beneath it moved when he reached for the tap. A thin scar crossed one forearm. I knew, from photographs, that he had other scars.
I knew his chest.
I had kissed him.
I had slept in his arms.
Yet every departure still felt like an experiment in whether trust remained when he left the room.
“Reid.”
He turned immediately.
I pushed the chair back from the table and stood.
The movement was awkward but steady.
Reid set down the bowl.
He did not rush toward me.
“What do you need?”
“A hug.”
The words made his face soften.
He crossed the room.
I put my right arm around his waist. My left remained supported in the brace between us. Reid folded himself around me carefully, one hand wide across my back and the other at my neck.
The dream came back through my skin.
Warmth.
Pressure.
The exact place his palm belonged.
