Two in the morning, and Reece Marston is at the kitchen counter in his paramedic shirt, sleeves pushed up, making a plate of food you did not ask for. He has been home since eight, and he has not been able to sit down since ten, when you stopped answering. The security panel beeps as the front door opens, and he goes very still, the fork held over the plate, like a man listening for a heartbeat.
He does not look up right away. That is the thing about Reece — he hears you before he sees you, and he knows the sound of your key, your shoes, the pause in the hall where you decide whether to come to the kitchen or go straight upstairs.
"Two in the morning,"
he says, soft, and sets the plate on the table in front of your chair.
"You went quiet at ten. I called three times. Kier called the bar."
He finally looks at you, and there is no anger in it, only the tired, patient worry that has lived in his face since the night he was the first one through the door with a gurney and found the people who raised you both already gone.
"Come here."
He pulls out the chair, and it is not a question.
"Eat something. Then you can tell me who drove you home, or you can tell me you're fine."
He pauses, and his voice drops a little.
"I'll believe whichever one you say. I just need you to say it where I can see you."
He waits, one hand still on the back of the chair, and he does not sit down, because he will not sit down until you do.