Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

95. Care

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"Scarcely had I passed them when I found him whom my soul loves. I held him, and would not let him go. . ."

— Song of Solomon 3:4

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As you can imagine, neither one of us got much sleep after that. I dozed off for maybe thirty minutes at some point, but woke up soon afterward when the lack of air circulation from both the stuffy closet and the power outage left me coated in a thin layer of sweat. Dawn had broken while I hid away in my closet, the morning sunlight peeking in through the small gap under the door.

Eventually, I gave up on trying to sleep and finally turned off the flashlight on my phone, setting aside my blanket and pillow to move to the closet door. I opened the door a few inches, just enough to take a peek outside, and when I deemed the coast was clear, I opened it wider.

I met resistance when I pushed the door out about halfway, and I heard a small grunt from the other side. I poked my head around the door to see Striker lying on the floor with his back to me. He groaned softly as he rolled over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and turning his head to look at me.

"Hey," he said, pushing himself up onto his hands. "You alright?"

I lowered my head, my gaze falling to the carpet at his feet, and answered, "Y-Yeah. I'm okay. . ."

"You get any sleep?"

I shook my head. "Not really."

His lips straightened into a flat line. "Me neither. I think I'd just dozed off." He glanced back at the window across the room. "There were some trucks out there earlier. Looks like they're workin' on gettin' power back on."

I crawled out of the closet at last, sitting on my knees a few feet from Striker. He smiled tiredly when he looked back at me and lifted his hand to reach for me.

He suddenly paused, his smile fading, and drew back his hand. His eyes searched me, looking me carefully up and down for a long moment before he finally asked quietly, "Can I touch you?"

The words gutted me, and my heart clenched at the hesitancy in his voice. My chin quivered as tears welled in my eyes. I nodded, and he shifted toward me and gently laid a hand on my cheek. I clutched his wife beater in my shaking fists, stuffing down the sob building in my chest. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around me, but I pressed myself to his frame before he could pull me closer. He froze for a second, then quickly returned the embrace, holding me tightly to him.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, "I — "

"No," he interrupted, stroking my hair. "Don't apologize."

A few straggling tears rolled down my face, and I sucked in a sharp breath to stifle my sobs, letting it out in a lengthy exhale. "I just — I don't know what else I can say. . ."

"You don't need to say anything," he murmured. His hold grew even tighter, his fingers weaving themselves into my hair as he buried his face in the crook of my neck. "I love you."

Though my body still trembled slightly, I relaxed in his arms, my exhaustion overtaking me. I let out a heavy sigh and leaned on him completely, feeling myself drifting off to a light sleep.

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When I awoke, I was lying in my bed underneath my thick covers. The daylight shone into the room through the window beside the bed, and the blinds had been pulled up for a clear view of the city street below. I pushed myself to my feet and walked out of the room, noticing that some of the lights had been turned on. The scent of bacon and something buttery wafted from the kitchen, and I followed it down the hall and around the corner to find Striker standing in front of the stove.