Page 145 of The Devil of Downtown

I snort and immediately regret it, hissing as my ribs protest.

“There it is,” he says, eyes twinkling. “The attitude survived.”

“Unfortunately,” I mutter.

The nurse leaves, and Dane helps me dress slowly, methodically, like we’re not in a rush to be anywhere except together. When I sway, he steadies me without comment, one hand warm and solid at my back.

On the way out, he keeps a hand on my elbow. Outside, the city seems louder than it should, like someone cranked up the volume. When a car passes too close, my breath catches.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, fingers threading through mine.

On the drive out of the city, I’m quieter.

The road opens up, wet and gray, and every sudden brake light makes my stomach knot. Dane notices before I say anything. He reaches over and laces our fingers together.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

I nod, swallowing. “I know. It’s just... my body hasn’t caught up yet.”

“It will,” he says. “We’ll give it time.”

My phone buzzes, Jennie’s name flashing across my screen.

Jennie’s voice is hoarse, like she’s been crying all night. We talk quietly about things neither of us is ready to feel yet. I ask if she’s spoken to Brody’s parents. She hasn’t.

“I don’t know how to,” she whispers.

“Not today,” I say. “But you will.”

Before we hang up, I tell her I love her because in moments like this, it’s all that we’ve got. All the trivial stuff we worry about day to day just seems pointless.

Dane doesn’t ask questions when I end the call. He just squeezes my hand once and keeps driving.

The Catskills house feels like home as we drive up. Dane insists on carrying me inside despite my protests.

“I can walk.”

“You can,” he agrees. “You’re not.”

He lays me carefully on the sofa, cushions adjusted until I’m comfortable, then crosses the room to build the fire. When he comes back, the fire is going, flames licking gently at the hearth.

As he walks over, he still has that look in his eye like he still can’t quite believe I’m real, that I’m still here living and breathing.

I close my eyes and listen to the fire crackle and fizz when he disappears into the kitchen. He brings me food—soup, toast—and sits beside me, feeding me careful spoonfuls when the angle makes my ribs ache.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.

His mouth twitches. “Immensely.”

I laugh before I can stop myself, then groan, clutching my side.

“Don’t,” I warn him. “You’re actually dangerous.”

“Noted,” he says solemnly. “No jokes. Only stern reassurance.”

“That’s worse.”

Later, when the house has fully warmed, and my eyelids are heavy, he helps me upstairs. We lie facing each other in the dim light; the world narrowed down to the quiet between us.