18. Layla
layla
. . .
Yesterday with Reed was fun. Our friendship is turning into something interesting, and I’m lying to myself if I don’t want more with him.
Layla, this is so wrong, but I can’t seem to find a fuck to give.
It’s late afternoon at Boots the way his glasses slide down again, the way he chews the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking, the faint scar along his jawline, and the tiny flecks of blue that center his pupil.
He feels me staring. I can tell the moment he does.
His shoulders tense up, the relaxed focus on his face fading as his eyes dart anywhere else but me. His hand drops from the counter, and he takes a subtle half-step back, like he suddenly wants to fade into the background again.
The subtle movement knocks something loose in my chest; frustration, empathy, guilt, I can’t tell which.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” I blurt out before my brain catches up.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing with confusion. “What?”
I swallow, instantly regretting my word vomit. “I just mean—” I wave vaguely toward him, my face burning. “You always do that thing. The, uh—backing away thing. You don’t have to.”
He blinks, silence stretching between us. His hand trails along the edge of the bar, thumb brushing the grain of the wood. “It’s not—” he begins, then stops. The words get lost somewhere in his throat.
For a second, I think he might actually begin to open up to me.
He finally speaks, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s not you I’m hiding from.”
I suck in a breath at his honesty.
His eyes stay on the wood beneath his hands. “It’s a reflex. You get used to taking up less space. It’s easier that way.”
Something heavy lodges in my throat. “Easier doesn’t mean better.”
He lets out a slow breath as his shoulders sag. “Maybe not. But it keeps things from hurting as much.”
I lean closer without thinking. The distance between us feels wrong now. “Does it?”
“Not really.”
His words are barely a whisper, but they undo me. Because for the first time, he’s not trying to be unreadable. He’s just… tired. Tired of hiding himself because of the way others look at him.
I want to reach for him, but I don’t, opting to simply rest my hand flat on the bar between us, close enough that if he wanted to, he could bridge the gap.
“I notice when you pull away,” I say quietly. “And I notice when you don’t.”
His gaze flicks to my hand, then to my face. There’s a storm behind his eyes—fear, longing, maybe relief.
He looks at me as if he wants to say something, like he’s struggling with whether he should.
“My bar is the only thing that’s ever felt safe. I built it from nothing to have somewhere to be when everything else stopped feeling like home.”
He stops there, the silence stretching, and I realize that might be the most he’s told anyone in years.
My chest aches. “That’s not nothing,” I whisper.
His lips part, then press together again. “You make it sound simple.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I say. “Life isn’t simple, it’s messy.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves as the clock ticks somewhere behind us.
He’s still tracing the grain of the wood, but his hand drifts closer to mine, hesitating.
Our fingers finally touch; time seems to stand still, the noise of the world fades away, and it feels as if the universe itself is holding its breath, waiting for us to remember we have always been connected.
In that small, fragile moment, I sense him starting to let me in.
It’s closing time, and I’m done editing for now. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I quickly pull it out, flinching at the bright screen.
Brian
*a selfie of him with his friend, Rebecca.*
Unreal. I throw my phone in my purse harder than necessary, scoffing at his stupid message.
He plays these mind games with me. Next, it’ll be a message saying how much he misses or loves me. Then, like a switch, he’ll be cruel, threatening, and hurting me with his words.
My focus snaps back to Reed.
He moves behind the bar with the same steady, methodical rhythm. The clink of glass against glass, the soft scrape of bottles sliding back into place. The neon sign out front casts a red glow through the windows, bathing everything in a gentle, muted maroon.
His shadow stretches long across the wooden floor, with broad shoulders outlined in warm illumination.
I’m still sitting at the bar with my chin propped in my hand, trying not to stew on Brian’s text while watching him instead.
He doesn’t talk much, but there’s something about watching him move that feels like its own kind of conversation. The looseness in his shoulders, the way his brow furrows when he’s counting bottles, the quiet focus that makes everything else fade away.
“Need help?” I finally ask because sitting still feels impossible.
He glances up, his eyes catching mine through the low light. “I’ve got it,” he says, but his voice is softer than usual, not a real no.
I slide off the barstool anyway. “You always say that like it’s a full sentence.”
“It is.”
I grin, walking around to the other side of the counter. “Too late, I’m helping.”
He watches me for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if it’s worth arguing. Then he shakes his head, a faint smile curling around his lips. “Fine. Grab those receipts, and take ‘em to the office in the back.”
“On it.”
I grab the stack of receipts he has piled on the counter neatly, the sound of paper crunching beneath my fingertips. Pushing past the bar, I make my way to the dimly lit hallway, entering Reed’s office.
His office smells like him: oakmoss, whiskey, and faint traces of his cologne. The dark oak desk is neat except for a half-empty coffee cup and a few scattered papers. I set the receipts down on the corner of his desk, my fingers brushing against the worn leather blotter.
The low whir of the bar is distant from here, muffled behind the closed door.
I linger for a moment longer than I should. Maybe it’s curiosity, or perhaps I like being surrounded by him; the quiet, and the warmth that seems to hang in the air even when he’s not in the room.
Turning on my heel, I push open the wooden door and step back into the hallway, staring at my fingernails when I make it less than halfway before practically colliding into a wall of muscle.
Reed’s hands grip my waist, steadying me.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the sudden contact.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Finally, I open them, letting my gaze travel along his abs, broad chest, and massive shoulders until they meet his green eyes behind his glasses.
God, he’s so tall it’s unfair, really.
He’s already staring down at me as his jaw tightens, his eyes flicking from my lips to my throat, and for a moment, I think he’s going to close the distance. He doesn’t, but God, I wish he would.
He releases my waist, resting his hand on the wall beside him, and gazes down at me. The hallway light washes over his face, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
“Sorry,” I breathe, my voice wobbly. “Didn’t mean to—”
“—run into me?” His mouth quirks, faintly.
He hesitates before he steps closer, as I try to move past him, but the space is too tight. The walls feel like they’re shrinking to just him and me, the faint smell of whiskey, the warmth radiating from his skin, and only the sound of our breathing.
“Guess we’ve got a hallway problem,” I mumble, smiling a little because I don’t know what else to do with all this tension.
“Guess so,” he says softly, taking off his glasses and tucking them in his back pocket.
We both stand there, close enough that the fabric of his shirt brushes my arm when he shifts his weight.
Without his glasses, he looks different. The scars along his cheek catch the light, each one a story he hasn’t told me yet. His beard and mustache are trimmed close, framing his mouth, and I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if he kissed me.
The silence stretches, and I can hear the faint hum of the fridge behind the bar and the whisper of the neon sign outside. Every other sound feels miles away.
His gaze drifts, not in a creepy, deliberate way, but in a way that feels unavoidable. He starts from my eyes to my mouth, then back again, the muscle in his jaw tenses once before he looks away.
I should move.
He should move.
Neither of us does.
“You shouldn’t stare at your nails as you walk,” he says finally, his voice quiet but rough.
“You shouldn’t run into people,” I shoot back, because humor is easier than admitting my pulse is losing its rhythm.
His mouth curves just slightly. “You always have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Occupational hazard,” I whisper, my eyes flicking down to where his hand rests on the doorframe beside my shoulder. His fingers twitch slightly, and it feels like the entire room reacts with him.
He exhales slowly. “Layla…” he begins, but then stops, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.
“What?” I ask, too soft, too curious, too everything.
Kiss me.
He meets my eyes again, and for a moment, it feels like gravity shifts—like every rule, every line, every quiet promise he’s made to himself is pulling tight.
But then he blinks, steps aside, and the spell shatters.
“Thank you for helping,” he says, voice calm again, even though his hand is still braced against the wall as if he needs it to stay upright.
I swallow hard and nod, forcing a small smile. “You’re welcome.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, looking down, and for a moment, I see it, the faint blush rising on his cheeks.
Maybe he doesn’t say a word, but the silence between us speaks everything neither of us has the courage to say.