21. Reed #2
We move toward the hallway, still tangled together at the fingers. My bedroom door is just ahead, a simple thing, but suddenly it feels like a line I can’t cross.
I stop just outside it.
“Layla…” I turn to her fully this time, our hands still linked. “If you want me back on the couch, I can slee—”
She quickly shakes her head, stepping closer, her free hand sliding up my arm in a slow, steady stroke. “No, stay with me.”
I swallow hard and push the door open.
The familiar scent of cedar and laundry detergent greets us, the only things keeping me grounded as the reality of this moment sinks in. I flick on the bedside lamp, warm light softening the room’s edges.
I gesture toward the bed, suddenly feeling shy in my own room.
She crawls onto the left side, sinking into the mattress with a sigh that feels like both relief and heartbreak braided together. I join her, lying on the right side.
Her kiss is still everywhere. I’d pulled back when every instinct in me screamed to do the opposite. Even now, my jaw aches from how hard I’m holding myself together.
She turns her head toward me, her eyes finding mine easily in the low light.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey,” I answer, voice rougher than I want it to be.
She gradually moves closer, her knee touching mine, and I remain still.
The only skin she can see is the left side of my face; the curve of my cheekbone catching the lamplight, ink tracing from the base of my neck and disappearing beneath my collar.
Roses for my beloved mama, her favorite. Black-and-white ink swirls beneath my neck’s base, encased in a mandala, to honor her.
Her gaze catches on the ink across my neck. I feel the weight of her gaze, even before she touches me.
She cranes her neck slightly, adjusting her angle to see better, studying the tattoo with quiet focus.
“That’s… really intricate,” she murmurs. “I didn’t notice how detailed it was before.”
I swallow. “You weren’t this close before.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across her mouth. “Fair point.”
She lifts her hand, hesitates for just a beat, then lets her fingers brush across my jaw; not across the scars, but the feel of her touch causes my eyes to flutter shut.
Her touch trails downward, following the ink on my neck with careful reverence. She stops at the collar of my shirt, fingertips resting there, acknowledging the boundary without challenging it.
I exhale slowly, the tension easing just enough to breathe.
She shifts again, closer now, and reaches for my hand where it’s curled between us.
Her fingers wrap around mine, and the fucking sensation of butterflies flutters back.
She turns my hand palm-up, studying the lines and ridges. Her thumb drags gently over my knuckles, and then she freezes.
Her eyes drop, narrowing slightly as she takes in the Roman numerals inked there.
XII / XII.
She doesn’t say anything at first, as she just holds my hand, analyzing.
“That’s a date,” she says finally, voice quiet.
“Yeah.”
She lifts her gaze to me. “What happened?”
I shake my head once. “Nothing happened.” A pause. “It’s my mom’s birthday, December twelfth.”
Her expression changes, not in a dramatic way, just a slow softening, like understanding settling into place.
“Oh,” she says.
She looks back down at my hand, her thumb tracing the numbers again, gentler now. “You put it somewhere you’d see it all the time.”
“So I wouldn’t forget,” I say.
She shakes her head. “That’s not why.”
I glance at her. “No?”
She meets my eyes. “You didn’t want to forget her.”
I don’t answer, I can’t.
She brings my hand closer, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, right over the ink.
It’s brief, tender, and it hits me harder than the kiss we shared earlier.
My arm tightens around her before I can stop it, pulling her against me. She goes willingly, settling into my chest as her cheek rests there through the fabric of my shirt.
I can feel the pattern of her breath, feel the warmth radiating off of her.
Her hand stays in mine as her fingers curl slightly, like she’s holding on without gripping too tight.
We don’t speak for a long moment.
Settling in closer, she traces a gentle line across my chest with her fingertip, casually following the seams of my shirt.
“So,” she murmurs, “if you could live anywhere… where would you go?”
I glance down at her. “Here’s pretty good.”
She laughs softly. “C’mon. That’s a boring answer.”
“It’s the truth,” I say, brushing a strand of hair away from her lips. “People act like they need a new place to be happy. I think you can build a life worth loving anywhere… if the right person’s there.”
Her hand stills on my chest, like she’s holding her breath.
“That sounds nice,” she whispers. “Having someone who truly chooses you.”
I tighten my arm around her just a little. I desperately want to pry into her relationship, but if she’s out here with me as she’s promised to someone else, I can only assume that something is going on.
“I think you deserve that more than anyone.”
She stares up at me like she’s trying to decide whether to believe it. Her eyes look softer in the low light, open in a way that makes me want to fight every battle she’s too tired to fight alone.
“What about you?” I ask quietly. “Where would you go?”
She sighs, thinking. “Somewhere I can paint without worrying how it looks on camera. Somewhere I can just… exist.”
I swallow around the ache in my throat.
“What do you like to paint most?”
“People,” she replies, voice sleepy. “Faces, hands… moments. I like when you can feel the emotion, not just see it.”
“That sounds like you,” I murmur. “You don’t just look at things. You feel them.”
She smiles into my shirt. “Is that your nice way of calling me dramatic?”
“It’s my honest way of saying you care deeply,” I say. “That’s rare.”
Her fingers curl into the fabric over my heart, holding on.
She asks, “Okay, your turn. Ask me anything.”
I think about it, really think, because there’s a million things I want to know, but only one that feels right tonight.
“What makes you feel safe?” I ask.
She blinks up at me, startled by the softness of the question. She chews her lip for a moment before answering.
“…when someone doesn’t let go first,” she says quietly.
Without a word, I take her hand and lace our fingers together under the blanket, making sure she feels the promise in it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her.
She finally relaxes, settling into me. Her breathing evens out as she presses her face into my chest, like she’s trying to hide how much that meant.
“You make it easy to breathe.”
I close my eyes and hold her a little tighter, letting my own breath fall in time with hers.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I reply. “Tonight… I’m really fucking happy you’re here.”
Her fingers squeeze mine once before sleep claims her, and long after she’s gone, still and quiet in my arms, I stay awake thinking one terrifying, undeniable truth.
If love feels like this, I’m already in deep.