30. Layla
layla
. . .
If happiness had a weight, I think it would feel like Reed’s arm draped over my waist, his nose buried in my hair, and his sleepy breaths warming the back of my neck. I haven’t stopped smiling since I opened my eyes.
Honestly? I’m not sure I had a genuine smile before him.
He moves behind me, his lips brushing the tip of my shoulder like a sleepy habit he’s had forever.
I turn into his arms, and there he is, already staring at me with his messy hair and tired green eyes, smiling at me like I’m his favorite sight.
“Morning,” he murmurs, sleep woven into his gravelly voice.
A smile touches my lips as I lean in and kiss him slowly.
I kiss him first on the lips, then trail kisses down the side of his neck, riddled with scars, until I trail them back up to meet his mouth again.
He lets out a low groan as I kiss him, sending a wave of butterflies through my body.
We must stay like that for twenty minutes, tangled up, exchanging lazy kisses, neither of us willing to break the spell.
My fingertips trace the strong line of his jaw, down his throat, and over the warmth of his chest.
He shivers and laughs softly. “I could wake up like this every morning, sunshine,” he says, brushing my hair out of my face.
“Me too,” I reply, pressing a kiss to the corner of his smirk.
His arm tightens around me as he presses his face into the crook of my neck, remaining silent.
We eventually drag ourselves out of bed because he apparently has plans for us. He tells me to get dressed and meet him out back, no hints, just that boyish grin he reserves for me.
He leaves the room once he’s dressed. I quickly follow suit, throwing on black leggings and grabbing Reed’s muted yellow flannel, my favorite.
I scuffle down the hall, barefoot, flying toward the screen door like an ape, and open it with such force that I’m shocked it didn’t fly off the railing.
When I step outside, I stop dead, instantly feeling tears swell at my lower lash line.
He’s set up a picnic blanket under a large oak tree, with a spread of food that feels like a brunch daydream.
Fresh fruit, croissants, sandwiches, and small pastries that smell divine. Two iced coffees cool in the sun, mine with vanilla, his with caramel.
And beside them?
Two blank canvases on small easels, and a complete set of paints, with colors ranging from neutrals to bright.
He stands there with his hands in his pockets, his glasses catching the sun, a shy smile tugging at his lips, as if he’s unsure whether this is too much.
My heart somersaults and stops right here in this beautiful moment, with this gentle man watching me like I’m his whole world.
“Reed…” I breathe, already walking towards him.
“I know you fly back in soon,” he says, voice softer now. “And I just wanted to spend today doing something that makes you happy.”
I throw my arms around his neck because words aren’t enough.
He laughs into my hair, his arms rising to hold me tight, squeezing gently as he kisses the top of my head.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper against his skin. “You’re perfect.”
He groans as his forehead rests against mine. “You keep saying things like that, I’ll never let you leave.”
Maybe that’s the point, maybe I don’t want to leave.
We settle onto the blanket, our knees brushing, our shoulders touching.
He hands me my iced coffee, and his thumb brushes the back of my hand as I take it.
“I’m soooooo excited!” I screech, staring at the blank canvas.
He dips a brush into the yellow paint and sketches a small sunflower in the corner of mine, a simple thing that shows he’s been paying attention.
“Well, get to it, sunshine,” he teases, leaning in to press a kiss to my cheek.
I just stare at him for a second, this quiet, gentle man who built a world in his backyard to keep me here a little longer.
The thought comes tumbling into my mind in this small, quiet moment.
If love looks like this?
If home feels like this?
I never want to leave.
Swirling my brush in pastel yellow, I try to pretend I’m focusing on the canvas rather than on how Reed sits beside me, his legs spread, shoulders relaxed, his arm warm against mine every time he moves.
He squints at his canvas as he paints.
“What are you painting?” I ask, sipping my iced coffee.
“A surprise,” he answers, which… suspicious.
“Reed Hayes,” I warn. “If that’s a stick figure with a cowboy hat—”
He smirks but doesn’t deny it.
“It’s abstract,” he says, seriously. “You wouldn’t get it.”
I gasp dramatically, smirking. “You’re starting to sound like Catalina.”
He chuckles, a deep, warm sound that sends vibrations down my spine, before dipping his brush into bright green paint, suspiciously.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t even think about—”
His brush taps the tip of my nose with a perfect neon dot.
I freeze.
He freezes.
Then he laughs, this deep baritone laugh that’s so unfiltered, raw, and real, and it’s something I could listen to forever. This man has burrowed his way into my heart, and I never want to let him go.
“Oh!” I say sweetly. “War!”
Before he can react, I swipe my brush across his forearm, leaving a streak of sky blue on his warm skin and over his scar-ridden tattoos.
His eyes go wide. “You did not just—”
I’m already scrambling back, giggling, because yes, yes, I did.
He lunges playfully, and I scream-laugh, waving my paintbrush as he gently tackles me onto the blanket.
“Say you’re sorry,” he demands, waving his brush over my cheek.
“Never,” I reply.
He lines a streak of yellow along my jaw. I leave a pink handprint on his chest. He strikes my upper arm with turquoise. I smear lavender across his jaw.
We’re a mess. A colorful, giggling, gorgeous mess.
I can’t breathe from laughing, my cheeks flushed, heart so full it might burst.
He’s still leaning over me, both of us breathless, staring at each other, paint smeared all over, grinning like idiots.
“You started that,” he says, brushing his nose against mine.
“You asked for it,” I whisper back.
His smile softens as his eyes dip to my lips, then back up.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
“Dangerously hot,” I shoot back.
“Yeah, you are, baby,” he answers immediately.
My laugh softens into something quieter yet more expansive.
He’s still hovering over me, his hand resting on my hip, his thumb idly stroking paint across my skin.
I reach up and trace the edge of his glasses, slightly crooked from our chaos, nudging them straight again.
He watches me like no one else exists.
He looks at me like I’m his whole future.
And for the first time in so long, I want a future too.
He flops beside me on the blanket, laughing—really laughing—like his whole chest is finally free to breathe again.
We’re both covered in paint. The canvases are a joke, and breakfast is probably warm by now, but none of it matters.
I can’t stop touching him as my fingers trail from his arms, feeling his ridged skin, to his jaw, the subtle shadow of his trim beard. I swirl my fingers through his mustache before caressing his lower lip.
“I’m gonna go wash up real quick,” I tell him, still grinning like an idiot.
He catches my wrist and pulls me into a soft kiss that steals the edges of my smile. “Hurry back,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my cheek.
My stomach does this wild swoop I’m still not used to.
I slip inside and close the bathroom door behind me, my heart doing cartwheels.
Placing my phone on top of the toilet, I lean over the sink, trying to scrub paint from my cheek, when my phone lights up and keeps lighting up.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Buzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzz—
My smile fades.
Brian has left me forty-six texts. I haven’t really heard from him, and now, he’s spiraling.
I wince as I grab my phone, my nerves racing, making my breathing come in shallow bursts.
Brian
So this is what you call work now?
Another arrives before I can breathe.
Brian
Filming trash in some small town?
Trying to look relevant?
I swallow the knot in my throat, tremors running through my body.
Brian
I saw your stupid video.
You fucking him?
My stomach turns into an endless pit of nerves.
Brian
He’s a freak, and those scars make him look fucking disgusting.
That’s your new content?
You’re ruining what we built.
Waves of pins and needles radiate throughout my body, making my hands tremble with anger, fear, and guilt.
Brian
You wouldn’t have a platform without me.
Don’t start thinking you can do this alone.
A lone tear escapes before I can stop it.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Brian
Delete it.
Now.
I finally break. A quiet sob escapes my lips, but just as quickly, my palm shoots up, covering my mouth, so Reed doesn’t hear me in case he walks back inside.
Brian
You’re mine.
We’ll fix this when you get home.
He tries to call me, but I decline his call as another text pings through.
Brian
Answer your fucking phone when I call you.
My phone vibrates violently in my palm again.
Incoming call from Brian.
I hit decline, again.
I suddenly feel insignificant again, shrunken into the tiny version of myself he created, maintained, and prodded around when it suited him.
A soft knock breaks through the panic.
“Layla?” he says softly. “You okay in there, baby?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath fractured. “Yes,” I force out, my voice barely working. “Just… one second.”
“Alright,” he says quietly. “I’m right out here.”
He’s not asking questions; he’s not pushing. He just waits patiently, as he always does.
My phone buzzes again, with more vicious messages sliding across the screen, and something inside me buckles under the weight of my two worlds colliding.
One life shaped by lies and fear, and another by hope and genuine love.
My gaze lifts to the mirror as I stare into my reflection.
Paint still smears my cheek where Reed touched me. My lips are swollen from his kisses. My eyes are soft, happy, and alive in a way Brian has never seen.
And for the first time… I’m not terrified of losing him. I’m afraid of going back.