16. Reed
reed
. . .
“C’mon,” I murmur, pushing my door open. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
She nods, climbing out, her hair shimmering beneath the porch light, and for a second, I watch the way she hugs her hoodie tighter, and the way the night wind tugs at her hair.
Damn, if it doesn’t hit me right in the chest, that quiet, dangerous thought I’ve been trying to avoid since she stumbled into my life.
My house is dim when we walk in, the air cool and faintly tinged with whiskey and orange bitters. I set the takeout bag down on the coffee table and nod toward the couch.
“Hope you like semi-cold fries.”
She flops down with a dramatic sigh, kicking her shoes off. “At this point, I’d eat airport carpet, so cold fries sound gourmet.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. She grins when she hears it, like she’s proud of herself for pulling it out of me.
We settle in, wrappers crinkling, the room quiet except for the hum of the paused TV. Terrifier 3 is still frozen on the screen, Art the clown’s grin stretched too wide.
“Of course you were watching this,” she says, chewing on a fry. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”
I glance at her, skeptical. “You sure?”
“Very sure.”
“You asked for it.” I grab the remote and hit play.
The movie continues to play, kicking back onto the shower scene, which I already know is going to be brutally gory. She squints at the screen, curious but a hint of horror flashing across her delicate features.
“Reed,” she whines, “why does he look like that? It’s gross.”
“He’s a horror icon.”
“He’s a nightmare,” she whispers, clutching a fry. “The way he’s smiling is freaking me out, like, why are his teeth black, please.”
I smirk, leaning back. “You talk a lot when you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” she shoots back immediately. “I’m just… narrating my trauma in real time.”
The brutal, gory scene finally flashes across the screen, and I glance over at her, whose eyes are wide in shock.
She screams, actually screams, and bolts off the couch so fast she knocks her drink over. “NOPE. I’M OUT. ENJOY YOUR CLOWN!”
I choke on a laugh, setting my cup down before I spill it. “You alright?”
Her voice bounces from the kitchen. “Reed, what in the fuck is THAT?!”
Standing up from the leather couch, I make my way over to the kitchen, where I find her crouched behind the counter, her hair falling into her face, still clutching that sad fry, which is now limp in her fingers.
I crouch down across from her, resting my elbows on my knees, still fighting back a grin.
“You hiding, sunshine?”
“Yes,” she whispers dramatically. “And I’m not coming out until that disgusting clown dies.”
“Unfortunately, he doesn’t die.”
“Oh, well, that’s fantastic!” she says mockingly with her hands thrown in the air, still clutching the fry between her fingers.
That draws another laugh out of me, the only person who can make me laugh so easily.
She peeks up through her lashes, cheeks flushed a pretty rosy pink, blue eyes bright, and for a moment, time stops.
Reaching out, I instinctively brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath stutters slightly, her gaze snapping up to mine.
“There,” I mumble. “Much better.”
Her lips curve into a coy smile, a soft laugh slipping through. “Such a gentleman, Reed.”
“Maybe.”
But my voice comes out softer than it should. Her eyes linger on me, and suddenly it’s too quiet, just the background noise from the TV spilling into the kitchen, her perfume mingling with the smell of fries.
She whispers, “You’re still smiling.”
I shrug, retreating my touch from her, and my thumb brushes against my knee. “Guess you’re contagious.”
Her laugh this time is smaller, almost shy, but it fills every inch of the room.
She blinks, a little stunned, then laughs nervously this time, but it fills the whole space anyway.
“Fine,” she sighs. “But now, I’m forcing you to watch She’s All That.”
“Deal.”
She’s still laughing softly as I stand and offer her a hand. Her fingers slip into mine, still trembling slightly from the scare. I help her up, and she stands there for a heartbeat too long, gazing up at me with that gentle, bright grin that always seems to disarm me effortlessly.
“Come on,” I say quietly, nodding toward the living room. “We’ll watch your movie, no more clowns.”
“Thank God,” she sighs, grabbing her limp fry from the floor. “My heart rate can’t take cinematic trauma tonight.”
We walk back to the couch, hand in hand. Once we’re both seated, we let each other go, and the feel of her hand not intertwined with mine feels wrong.
I scroll through the streaming options until I land on the movie she wanted. She curls into the corner of the couch with her legs tucked under her, as she grabs one of my throw blankets and wraps it around herself.
The light from the screen flickers across her face, catching the beauty marks speckled on her cheek and neck. For a few minutes, she’s quiet, and I think maybe she’s winding down, but then she perks up again, turning to me.
“So, I’ve been editing all day,” she says suddenly, like the thought just burst out. “Well, not today-today, ‘cause plane Wi-Fi is garbage, but yesterday. The footage that I have is coming together nicely. We can film some more tomorrow.”
I glance over at her as my arm rests on the back of the couch. “You got it, sunshine.”
She grins, biting her lower lip, which drives me mad, as she turns her attention back to the movie.
The movie keeps playing, but neither of us is really watching.
She starts talking again—about camera angles, color grading, the way she wants to film in natural light next time—and I listen.
Her soft voice fills the room, cutting through the quiet that used to feel so heavy here.
She yawns and tucks herself deeper into the blanket, her words beginning to slow, her sentences stretched, and I know she’s seconds from falling asleep mid-thought.
And somehow, with her in my house, half-asleep on my couch, I realize the quiet doesn’t feel empty anymore.
It takes about five minutes for her to fall asleep, the movie still flickering on the TV, low enough that the sound barely reaches over the hum of the heater.
The blanket slips slightly off her shoulder, and her hair spills over the cushion in tangled, blonde waves.
I continue studying her, and her hair isn’t just blonde; I’m able to see it now, beneath my glasses.
The color deepens toward the ends, fading from pale honey into warmer tones, with threads of auburn woven through. It’s not perfect; a few pieces curl in different directions, and one strand rests against her cheek, caught on the corner of her mouth.
Her ivory skin looks soft, warm, and flushed even while she sleeps. Her cheeks have a natural, lingering pink.
A faint dusting of freckles appears near her nose, freckles I hadn’t noticed before.
Her nose is small and gently upturned, the kind that wrinkles when she laughs or gets stubborn, which seems to be most of the time.
There are faint smile lines at the corners of her mouth, just barely visible, subtle reminders of every laugh she’s ever forced into the world, even when it hurt.
Her dark, long lashes fan out across her cheeks, curling upward, and each time she exhales, they flutter just the tiniest bit.
And her lips, fuck, her lips.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring before I realize I am.
They’re slightly parted, with a soft pink color that looks alive even in the pale light. Her lips are full, nearly shaped like a heart when parted.
She’s beautiful.
My gaze drifts down to her hand resting on the blanket, her fingers loosely curled near her chest. That’s when I notice that fucking ring.
Her engagement ring sparkles faintly in the TV light, glimmering.
It doesn’t belong on her, not when she’s here in my home, her chest rising and falling in that gentle rhythm that makes the whole damn world feel quieter.
The sight of that ring hits me harder than I expected.
It’s an anchor, pulling me back to reality. A reminder that this isn’t mine to want.
That she isn’t mine to want.
But God, I want her anyway.
I want to hear her laughter echo through these walls every day.
I want to understand the thoughts behind those bright, reckless eyes. I want to learn the cadence of her voice when she’s not performing for anyone. I want to hold onto this—this fragile, impossible peace between us—because it’s the first time my house hasn’t felt like a tomb.
And yet, I can’t have it.
I can’t have her.
She’s here, asleep on my couch, wrapped in my blanket, and I’m sitting two feet away, quietly falling apart because she’s the first person in years to make me feel alive again.
My gaze again follows her face, committing every detail to memory. I notice the curve of her jaw, the soft hollow under her cheekbone, the delicate shadow cast by her lashes, and the gentle rise at the corner of her lips.
I run my fingers through my mustache, attempting to look away, but it’s futile.
Every fiber of my being is drawn to her.
I lean back against the couch, restraining my hands, fighting the urge to reach out and brush her hair aside. The restraint weighs more than anything I have ever lifted.
She quietly sighs in her sleep, her lips slightly parting, and her brows twitching as if reacting to something only she perceives.
I shouldn’t be looking at her like this. I shouldn’t be thinking about what it would feel like to touch her, to see those eyes open and find me there, to kiss her.
Something about her feels like sunlight breaking through every wall I’ve built to keep the world out.
I’ve been telling myself it’s wrong, that it’s nothing. That she’s just a friend. A guest. A woman with a ring on her finger and a life that doesn’t intersect with mine beyond this fleeting, stolen moment.
But the truth?
I already know this isn’t temporary for me; it hasn’t been since I first laid my eyes on her.
I sit there long after the credits roll, after the movie fades out and the screen goes black, after the only light left in the room is the light that spills through the porch window.
I sit there watching her breathe, memorizing every tiny detail because I know I shouldn’t. Because it feels like the only thing I’ll have.
Finally, I lean my head back against the couch as the ache in my chest becomes unbearable.
I close my eyes and let the sound of her breathing fill the room.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure if the silence is comforting or if it’s killing me slowly.