Chapter 166: Reid
Jake finishes tending to her hands, cleaning them gently, and I step forward.
“Your ribs,” I say, voice low. “We should take another look. Properly.”
She hesitates, then gives a small nod.
I move in without thinking. My hands come to her waist, and I lift her like she weighs nothing. Her breath catches when I settle her on the edge of the bathroom counter. The shirtrides up slightly on her frame as she shifts, and I catch a glimpse of bare hips above the waistband of the joggers she’s swimming in.
I take a step back to give her space, to give myself air. “Can I see?”
She nods again, and with fingers slightly trembling, she lifts the shirt — my shirt — slowly, dragging the fabric upward until it stops just beneath her breasts.
And I stop breathing.
The bottom curve of them is right there, barely hidden by the fold of cotton. The skin above her ribs is smooth and soft, and then it isn’t — the bruise spreads across one side in deep, furious purples and stormy blues.
Jake exhales hard beside me. “Jesus.”
I step forward again, one hand instinctively coming back to her waist, grounding her, grounding me. The bruise is worse than I thought.
“That was from a branch?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.
She swallows. “Yeah. It came fast. Charlie ducked but I didn’t.”
Jake moves in, calm but focused. “I’m going to check for anything cracked,” he says.
She nods and braces herself, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. I stay right in front of her, close enough to keep her steady if she sways, close enough to feel the heat of her between my hands.
She winces when Jake presses along her ribs, eyes squeezed shut. The sound she makes is soft, pained, but she doesn’t pull away. Her breath hitches as Jake continues, his fingers skilled and sure, and I don’t look at her face. I can’t. Not when she’s this exposed in front of us, not when my shirt is the only thing she’s wearing and it’s barely covering anything.
Jake finishes and looks at me. “Nothing broken. Deep bruise, maybe a cracked blood vessel or two. She’ll be sore as hell.”
I nod, open the kit again, and pull out the jar of cream.
“This is gonna feel cold,” I murmur.
She nods, and I swear I feel her lean slightly toward me — barely, but enough that I register it.
I dip my fingers into the cream and smooth it along the edge of the bruise. Her skin jumps under the chill, and she lets out a breath that stirs something deep in my chest. I keep my movements careful, slow, but deliberate. I trace the boundary of damage, watch the way her stomach tenses under my hand.
The shirt she’s wearing is still bunched up beneath her chest, and the longer I stand this close, the harder it is to look away.
I feel Jake behind me shift, his silence heavy with the same thing I’m holding back.
She doesn’t say anything — just sits there between us, breathing shallow, the air thick and charged in the narrow space.
I reach for the wrap next, and she raises her arms for us.
We wind it around her ribs, careful not to pull too tight, and when it’s secure, I gently tug the shirt back down, covering her again.
Only then do I finally exhale.
Jake clears his throat. “Okay?”
She nods. Her voice is quiet. “Yeah. Thank you.”
I help her down off the counter, hands on her hips again, slow, steady. She lands soft on the floor, and for a moment, none of us move.
It’s quiet, the storm just distant noise against the glass, and for now — just for now — she’s safe. Between us. Ours to hold. Ours to keep steady.
I don’t say it. Jake doesn’t either. But we both feel it.
She's ours.
Just as I make sure her feet are steady, and I’m about to ask if she wants to go back down—
She looks up at us with those green eyes, lashes still damp, voice soft and a little hoarse.
“Do I really have to sleep alone tonight?”
My body goes still.
Jake stops too, just beside me, his hands still loosely hovering like he’s not quite ready to let go of her yet either.
Then she adds, “Can I stay with you?”
There’s no hesitation in the way she says it. No teasing in her tone, no playing around. Just quiet need. Trust. Safety.
Jake looks at me. I look at him.
And in that second, there's no debate. No questions.
I bend slightly and slide one arm under her knees, the other around her back, lifting her with no resistance.
She exhales — this tiny, almost relieved breath — and leans her head to my shoulder.
“You never have to sleep alone,” I say against her temple. “Not if you don’t want to.”
Jake opens the door to my room ahead of us, pushing it wide so I don’t have to stop walking. His hand finds her leg briefly as I pass, his touch soft and grounding.
She’s already half-asleep by the time I lower her gently onto the bed. Jake closes the door behind us, and everything else — the storm, the house, the distance between us and what we feel for her — gets quieter.
This, right here — this is the only thing that matters.