Page 49 of Red Zone
She’s spiraling again.
I don’t say anything. Just reach across the console and slide my hand into hers, weaving my fingers between hers like I’ve done it a hundred times.
She goes still.
But doesn’t pull away.
Her thumb pauses mid-press, resting now against my skin.
She stares down at our joined hands for a second. A long, weighted beat. And then— Her lips twitch. Just the faintest upward curve.
She turns her face toward the window, but not before I catch it.
And for some reason, that one tiny smile—barely there, but real—settles something in my chest I didn’t know was restless.
I don’t know what this is. But I know I don’t want to let go.
Not just yet.
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hum above us as we push through the entrance. Lyla grabs a basket instead of a cart—she says it makes it easier to feel in control of the list in her head. I let her lead the way, trailing half a step behind as we navigate the empty late-night aisles.
We pass the pharmacy section, and I clock the bright neon signs—pain relievers, razors, condoms.
I don’t say anything at first, but then I raise a brow and nudge her with my elbow. “Should we restock? You know, in case next time you forget to cancel the booty call, and I actually show up prepared?”
She laughs under her breath, rolling her eyes. “You wish.”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about it.”
“Only so I could un-think it.” But she’s smirking now, that sharp spark back in her voice.
We keep walking, and I think that’s it—until she slows down in front of the tampons.
She eyes the shelves, scanning for her usual brand, then glances at me sideways. “You’re being alarmingly chill about walking through this aisle.”
I shrug. “I’ve lived with enough foster sisters to know what’s what. Not exactly traumatized by some cardboard boxes and pastel packaging.”
She snorts. “Wow. A man with emotional maturity and a functioning understanding of women’s bodies. You’re gonna ruin your reputation.”
I grin. “Too late. Already did that when I alphabetized your pantry.”
She laughs, real and unguarded this time, and something warm curls in my chest.
We move on toward the frozen section, the air cooling against our skin as we step into the glow of freezer doors.
“Pick your poison,” I say, opening one of the glass doors with a flourish.
She peers in, all faux-serious. “Do not underestimate the power of a well-timed mint chip.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”
And when she grabs the pint and drops it into the basket, her fingers brush mine—and neither of us pulls away.
The faint sound of voices outside the apartment door snap me out of whatever daze I’d fallen into. I glance at the screen—still muted chaos—and then down at Lyla.
I lean in gently. “Hey,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles lightly against her arm. “Lyla, wake up.”
She stirs, eyes blinking open. “What?—”
