Reed
. . .
What the fuck am I doing?
She’s engaged.
She’s got his fucking ring on her finger.
And I listened to her cum during a spontaneous phone call last night.
I’m not that guy. I’ve spent years telling myself I’m not that guy. And why would she want me anyway?
My stomach twists so hard I almost gag.
I shake my head, focusing my attention back to finishing up prep, folding down barstools, wiping a sticky ring left from the earlier shift, when the front door gives a soft jingle.
Derek Reeves steps inside, with Caleb tucked against his side.
Thank God, a distraction.
We met at a grief support group in Opal Springs. Derek’s older, sure, but he looked like a man who’d seen fire too, not the kind that leaves scars on the skin, but the kind that burns through your life and leaves you standing in the smoke, wondering what the hell comes next.
We didn’t talk much that first night. He just sat beside me with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, staring at the wall. When the facilitator asked if anyone wanted to share, I felt his tension in my own shoulders.
Different stories. Same kind of loss.
I think that’s why he comes here. Not for the drinks, he barely finishes one. It’s the company without the pressure to speak. Just another man trying to breathe among the pieces of his past.
And sometimes, knowing someone else is carrying their own ghosts is enough to make yours feel a little lighter.
I shake away my recollection of the time we first met and watch them both saunter up to the bar counter.
He still has that stiff firefighter posture, even in jeans and a T-shirt. Caleb clutches a dinosaur toy under one arm, his small feet scuffing the wood as he tries to imitate his dad’s silent swagger.
“You’re early,” I say, tossing a towel over my shoulder.
Derek tries to answer. His mouth shapes the word “Yeah”, but it comes out clipped.
“Y—ah.”
He grimaces, his jaw tightening briefly, then raises his hand and signs a simple shrug.
I act like I overlooked his stumble.
Caleb hops onto his favorite stool. “Daddy, let me pick the music in the truck!”
I nod. “Rebellious. I like it.”
Derek exhales quietly. His eyes are weary, constantly tired, but they soften when Caleb slams his dinosaur onto the bar with a loud bang.
I grab a Coke from the fridge, pour it into a plastic cup for Caleb, extra napkins because his hands are always sticky, then grab a ginger ale for Derek before he has to ask.
Sliding the ginger ale his way, he grunts with thanks, his lips forming to speak.
“Th… thanks.”
His words stumble, the sound stutters on the exit, but he forces it out anyway.
Speech apraxia is cruel; it happened after his accident, which cost him everything.
It doesn’t steal your voice; it allows you to hear every syllable clearly in your head, then turns against you when you try to speak.
“You’re good,” I say, wiping the counter down in steady circles.
Caleb kicks his legs, sipping loudly. “Daddy says he’s going back to work soon.”
Derek’s fingers tighten around his glass. He takes a breath, trying to formulate a whole sentence. “Cap…ta…in… he…want…”
His mouth flutters as his shoulders tighten, his eyes flickering with embarrassment.
He shifts, lifting his fingers and signing. “Captain. Wants. Me. Back.”
“Of course he does,” I say. “They need you.”
Derek chews the inside of his cheek as his gaze drops to the bar top.
He signs more slowly, less confidently.
“My shoulder needs to improve; he’ll only take me back if I agree to physical therapy.”
His injury, the nightmare that prevents him from holding a hose at full weight, climbing ladders like he used to, or yelling into smoke-filled rooms when seconds matter.
His captain isn’t worried about his speech as he’s in speech therapy, but it’s his range of motion and flexibility that need work.
I nod. “It will.”
He looks up, like he wants to argue, but Caleb interrupts before he can.
“Daddy’s the best firefighter. He saved a puppy once.”
Derek tries to hide his cringe.
I let myself smile.
“That’s pretty badass,” I tell Caleb, leaning in. “Did the puppy thank him?”
“Yeah! He licked his ear.”
Derek clears his throat and shoots me a pleading look, like don’t you dare make this a thing.
I raise my hands in surrender.
Derek’s lips twitch, the tiniest laugh hidden behind them.
He looks more alive when Caleb is here.
Caleb finishes his drink with a dramatized slurp. “We’re gonna go to the park now, before we head back home.”
Derek gives Caleb a gentle nudge, his mismatched eyes—one warm amber-brown, the other piercing storm-blue—softening in a way most people never see. His voice is rough as he pushes out one more word.
“Thanks.”
It lands heavily because I understand what it costs him to speak at all.
I nod.
“Anytime, Reeves.”
He places a hand on the back of his son’s hoodie, and they head for the door. Caleb waves his dinosaur at me, saying goodbye.
Sunlight stretches through the blinds in angled stripes, and there is nothing to fill the silence except the faint hum of the refrigerator and the uneven rhythm of my own breath.
I need to move, to do something that feels like living, so I step outside.
The porch boards creak beneath my boots as I head to the mailbox. The neighborhood smells like autumn is near, full of freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, and that gentle warmth that lingers on everything once the sun has been shining long enough.
Someone nearby must be grilling, because the air carries a hint of sweet barbecue smoke too, the scent wrapping around the breeze.
I reach my weathered, rusted mailbox and open the lid; what I find knocks the air from my lungs.
An envelope. Just an off-white envelope with gentle pen strokes spelling out my full name:
Reed Hayes
Her handwriting curves as if she wrote it with a soft smile she couldn’t hold back. A small floral sticker seals the flap, and in the top corner is her address in Los Angeles, and I’m floored she even thought to write me at all.
Cherry and vanilla notes waft from the envelope before I even open it; the exact scent of her perfume.
Her presence surrounds me in that simple detail, and for a moment, I stand there, breathing her in.
I take my time breaking the seal. The flap opens with a soft tear, and a Polaroid slips into my hand first, and I catch it carefully.
It’s a selfie of Layla as she beams up at me from the glossy surface; her hair tousled by the wind, cheeks flushed from laughter, neon city lights behind her that look wild and alive.
I turn the picture over.
A tiny note in the bottom corner reads:
For your mantle. ;-)
I smile to myself and carefully take out the letter from the envelope. The letter is neatly folded, but the creases look softened, as if she had folded it many times.
Reed,
I promised myself I would wait like a normal person and let you get back to your life without me barging in through the mailbox like I am some drunken pen pal, but apparently, I’m terrible at patience and even worse at pretending I don’t think about you every five minutes.
I keep picturing you sitting beside me by the lake, trying to paint tiny yellow suns even though you insisted your flower looked like a sad amoeba, but it was still cute because you made it.
I miss you—the one who let me see the soft parts, even when you hated how exposed it made you feel. I want you to know that those moments mattered to me more than you think, and I keep replaying them like tiny movie scenes in my head.
I hate how much I miss you, and I hate that missing you feels so incredibly good at the same time, which should be illegal because I already have enough emotional confusion.
I know this thing between us is messy, probably ill-advised, and something my therapist will eventually raise her eyebrows at, but I can’t bring myself to regret a single second.
If you want to reply, you should, because I am checking the mailbox like a raccoon hunting for shiny things, and I’m pretty sure my neighbors think I’m in love with a mailman.
Keep my seat warm, okay?
xoxo, Layla
Her words blur for a second, not because they are unclear, but because they land somewhere within my heart that has been hers all along.
I sit on the porch step because my knees need support, and I run my thumb along the Polaroid again, unable to ignore the heat building behind my ribs.
Folding the letter carefully, avoiding any creases on its softer edges where her hand rested longest, I hold it open in my palm for a moment longer, letting every last trace of her scent and warmth seep into my skin before I rise again.
She is out there, missing me.
And for the first time since she left, my heart no longer feels like it’s bracing for impact.
I fold the letter one more time, mostly because I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll keep reading it until the ink fades from how hard my eyes cling to every word.
Carefully tucking the envelope into my pocket, I take more than two steps toward the front door as gravel crunches loudly in my driveway.
Two vehicles pull up, totally disregarding the noise ordinance that likely exists somewhere in this town.
Maverick arrives first in his unnecessarily massive Bronco, its engine rumbling.
He swings the door open with too much enthusiasm, and Leo immediately starts screeching from the backseat, his black vans kicking against the seat as he reaches for his dad.
Amelia follows behind Maverick, smoothing a hand over Leo’s bright, blonde curls while giving my house a curious once-over.
Carter’s black truck pulls in behind them with a bit more grace, although the man driving it still looks like he could bench-press the entire vehicle just to prove a point.
Catalina jumps out first, already mid-sentence about something Carter apparently did wrong five minutes ago.
Carter looks at her as if he would gladly spend eternity being scolded if it meant she kept talking to him.
They didn’t call.
They arrived assuming I was home. Apparently, no one in this family believes in knocking or decency.
“Did you seriously say ‘we’ll see’ after I planned the entire—oh, hi, Reed!” Catalina’s irritation flips into a bright smile the second she spots me.
“Hey, Cat,” I say, leaning on the porch railing as they approach.
Maverick lifts Leo higher onto his hip and squints at me, eyeing me up and down with his infamous shit-eating grin.
“What’s that in your pocket, bro?”
“Nothing,” I counter. “Worry about your son.”
Amelia snorts.
Maverick’s gaze drops again on the envelope shape pressed against my pocket. His brows lift, subtle but curious.
“Who’s writing you letters, man?”
Carter’s eyes follow as Catalina tries to hide her interest and fails immediately.
I shift my stance, casual even though my pulse decides to misbehave.
“Just mail.”
“Bills don’t smell like perfume,” Maverick says under his breath.
I clear my throat, keeping my voice measured. “It’s personal.”
Maverick nods once, though curiosity remains in his eyes.
“Fair enough,” he mumbles, adjusting Leo, who has begun shoving his fingers in Mav’s mouth.
“You all planning on invading my house again?”
Amelia gives a slight shrug. “You can say no if you want.”
I should, I could.
But they already made me feel better just by showing up.
“Door’s open,” I reply, pushing off the railing.
Maverick grins and heads toward the porch, holding on to Leo as he gnaws on his plastic football.
The laughter of my family fills the porch as they file inside, and the envelope in my pocket stays there like a spark I’m still afraid to protect out loud.
I just know, the next time I see her, my hesitation, pullback, and guilt about her being engaged will be gone; I don’t give a fuck anymore.
I need her.