Page 68 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

I hesitate, unsure if waking him will help or hurt. But the pain etched into his face is too much to bear.

"Reed," I whisper, leaning in and gently brushing his shoulder. "Reed."

His eyes fly open, wild and unblinking. He doesn't see me. Not at first. His mind is still caught somewhere else, still fighting to make sense of where—and when—he is.

But then… slowly… recognition dawns. His shoulders drop. A sigh escapes his lips. He lifts a hand to my cheek, and I lean into it, relieved.

"You okay?" I ask softly.

He nods once.

"Bad dream?"

Another nod.

Then he pulls me against him, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and holding me tight. I stay like that, quietly tracing soothing circles on his skin whilst he drifts back to sleep.

Eventually, much later, he wakes again and I murmur, "You should probably sneak out before sunrise. Don't want the hands catching you doing the walk of shame."

"Fuck them," he says, voice low, no heat.

"I hope not," I deadpan, and he snorts—the tension easing a little. When I glance up, his eyes are open, thoughtful. Still distant but focused now. Present.

"You know this isn't just a one-time thing, right?" he says quietly. "It's gonna happen again. Probably a lot. At least until we get each other out of our systems."

I hesitate—then nod. There's no point pretending anymore. The attraction is too strong, too real.

"I know it's not the last time," I say.

"You do?"

"Yeah."

He exhales—a half-laugh, half-sigh—then pauses. "And… what do you think about that? About sleeping with the two of us? And perhaps Dean as well?"

Is that insecurity in his voice? Coming from Reed, of all people?I don't answer—not with words. Instead, I roll on top of him, straddling his waist, grinning as I feel him harden against my thigh. Then I lean down, lips brushing his ear, and suck his earlobe gently into my mouth. He groans, desire sparking hot between us.

"Let me show you exactly how I feel about it."

Later, well past midnight, I finally ask Reed what his nightmare was about.

"Nothing important," he says with a yawn, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just old shit. The past."

"You mean your military days?" I ask.

He nods.

"Yeah. It was about a mission—one of the shittier ones." He hesitates, eyes darkening. I can sense the weight of the memory pressing down on him, the tug-of-war between wanting to speak and wanting to shove it all back inside. He meets my eyes, and Itry to show him, without words, that it's safe. That I'm here. That I won't judge him.

Whatever he sees in my face must reassure him, because his mouth twitches—a ghost of a smile—and he keeps going.

"We thought it was a successful mission. We were sent in to destroy the enemy's stash—weapons, explosives, whatever they had. Disable it, burn it, make sure they couldn't use it again. And we did. Every last bit. But it turned out the whole thing was a setup. A decoy."

He swallows hard.

"They let us think we'd won. Let us celebrate. We made it back to base, got a few drinks in us, let our guard down. That's when they hit us. Ambushed us right there, at home."

He pauses, jaw tight, voice lower now.

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