Reed
. . .
Layla’s still asleep when I slip out back, coffee in hand, the air cool enough to see my breath.
She’s been doing better, laughing again, eating, sleeping in longer stretches without waking in a cold sweat.
But I still notice the shadows behind her smile, the way her hands sometimes tremor when she thinks no one’s watching.
So today, I wanted to give her something special, something that feels like her.
I spent the morning dragging an old table from the shed and setting it up under the oak tree. I covered it with a white sheet Catalina brought over last week and laid out brushes, jars of paint, and a large canvas still wrapped in plastic.
By the time I finish lining up the paints by color, I hear the screen door creak open. Her bare feet pad across the porch, and her soft voice drifts through the quiet.
“Reed? What are you doing out here?”
I turn, and there she is, sleepy-eyed, wearing one of my flannels and shorts.
The morning light highlights the faint bruises along her legs, but they’re healing, fading into the past where they belong.
“Hey, sunshine.” I nod toward the table. “I figured we could get some sun and paint today.”
Her brow furrows as she steps down onto the grass, barefoot, the hem of my shirt brushing her knees. “You set all this up?”
“Sure did.” I take a sip of my coffee. “C’mon, baby, paint with me.”
Her lips part slightly as she looks at the table—the neat rows of colors, the glass of water I set out for the brushes, and even the small bouquet of wildflowers I picked from the edge of the fence line.
“Reed…” she says softly, her eyes glassy. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “But I wanted to.”
She steps closer, her fingertips brushing the handles of the brushes. “You even got canary yellow,” she murmurs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “That’s my favorite.”
“Lucky guess,” I lie, even though I’d spent half an hour scrolling through her old videos online, trying to figure out which shade she used most.
Layla laughs under her breath, a sound that warms me to the core. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” I grin faintly. “But I like seein’ you smile, so I’m not stoppin’ anytime soon.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, the world stops.
The way she’s looking at me is the same as the first time she walked into my bar years ago.
“Come on,” I say, clearing my throat. “Before the wind dries the paint.”
We spend the next hour outside, sunlight filtering through the branches and casting streaks of gold across her hair.
She hums softly as she works, her tongue peeking out between her lips, her brush gliding over the canvas in long, deliberate strokes.
I don’t really paint, but I sit beside her anyway, sketching random shapes in the corner just to make her laugh. Whenever I mess up, she giggles softly and shakes her head.
At one point, she glances at me, her eyes shining. “You’re actually kind of terrible at this.”
“‘Kind of’?” I snort. “That’s generous.”
Her laughter spills out, and I swear I’d do anything to keep hearing it.
She leans back, wiping a streak of yellow across her cheek with the back of her hand.
I glance at her painting. It’s abstract; swirls of lavender, blue, and peach.
“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly.
She looks down, cheeks warming. “It’s just colors.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, watching the sunlight dance across her face. “But they look like you.”
She blinks, caught off guard, then smiles. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”
“Not always,” I admit. “Just when it comes to you.”
She looks away, biting her lip, but I notice it, that spark. That part of her that’s finally beginning to believe she deserves happiness.
We sit there until the light begins to fade, our hands covered in paint, our brushes drying in the breeze.
She’s sitting cross-legged in front of me, her hair caught in the breeze, a pale yellow streak smudged across her cheek. She’s been quiet for a few minutes now, the brush resting in her lap, watching the light shift through the trees.
I lean back on my palms, trying not to stare too long. Her tank top’s speckled with color, her knees dusted with dirt.
She looks—God, she looks like peace.
“You did good, sunshine,” I murmur.
She glances up, her lips curling. “You mean we did. You made that weird-looking cloud, right?”
I chuckle. “That’s supposed to be a mountain.”
“It looks like mashed potatoes.”
I grin. “Guess I’m more of a mashed-potato kinda artist.”
Her laugh fades into a quiet smile. “You always know how to make me feel normal again.”
“You are normal,” I say softly.
She studies me for a long moment, her eyes tracing my face as if memorizing it. She sets her brush down and crawls closer across the grass, her knees brushing mine.
“Layla,” I whisper, voice rough. “You sure?”
She nods, just once. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Her hand rises slowly as her fingertips skim the paint from my scarred jaw. Her touch is gentle, slightly trembling, and it sends a shiver straight through me.
“You’ve been so gentle with me,” she says, barely above a whisper. “You never ask for anything.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. “You don’t owe me a thing, baby.”
“I know.” Her thumb gently traces my lower lip, smudging a yellow streak. “But I want this.”
I can smell the faint cherry note of her shampoo and the sun’s warmth on her skin. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, and then she leans in.
I don’t move until she closes the distance.
Her lips are soft and hesitant at first, tasting faintly of hazelnut and something sweet that’s uniquely hers. My hands twitch against the grass, every instinct screaming to touch her, to pull her closer, but I don’t.
Not yet. I let her lead and decide.
She kisses me again, this time deeper, her fingers sliding into my hair and tugging just enough to make me exhale into her mouth. When she finally pulls back, her breath catches, and her eyes are glassy yet steady.
“Sorry,” she whispers, though her voice holds a hint of a smile. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
I shake my head, a soft laugh escaping me as I cup her cheek, my thumb tracing the faint paint streak there. “Don’t you dare apologize for that.”
She leans into my touch, her eyes closing for a moment.
When she opens them again, she’s smiling. “You’ve got paint all over your face.”
I grin. “Worth it.”
The sun slips lower, bathing us in gold. She presses her forehead to mine, and our breaths mingle as we stay silent for a long moment.
I breathe her in and whisper, “You don’t ever have to run again, sunshine. You’re home now.”
She sinks back onto her heels, blinking up at me with that quiet spark I haven’t seen since everything went wrong. There’s color in her again, warmth.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
She nods, biting her bottom lip. “Better than okay.”
A brief silence passes before she looks toward the side of the house—where my motorcycle sits, gleaming in the fading light.
She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as if she’s considering something she knows she shouldn’t.
I catch it instantly. “Don’t even think about it.”
She gasps dramatically, feigning offense. “Think about what?”
“You know damn well what,” I say, smirking. “That look’s dangerous.”
Her grin widens, mischief flashing across her face. “Come on, Reed. Just a quick ride. Please?”
I groan, already shaking my head. “You’re barely healed, sunshine. I’m not riskin’ you fallin’ off the back of my bike.”
“I wouldn’t fall,” she argues, standing and brushing grass off her legs. “You’d never let me.”
She’s right. I wouldn’t.
She tries to hold back a grin but fails spectacularly. “Reed, come on. Please. Just a short ride. You promised when I was feeling better.”
“I said maybe,” I correct, pointing a paint-stained finger at her. “And you’re still—”
She steps closer, the hem of my flannel grazing her bare legs. Her voice drops to that soft, teasing drawl that always gets me. “Please?”
Hell. There goes my resolve.
I drag a hand down my face, sighing. “You’re impossible.”
Her grin spreads wide, bright as the damn sun. “You love it.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, pretending to be annoyed. “That’s the problem.”
Out by the bike, she doesn’t even wait for me to grab the helmets—she already knows which one’s hers.
She picks it up gently, her fingers tracing the design as she always does before slipping it on.
“You ready?” I ask, voice rougher than I intend.
She tilts her head, the painted flowers shining gold in the late afternoon light. “I’ve been ready since you made me my helmet.”
I chuckle. “Guess I set myself up for this, huh?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the p.
Throwing my helmet on, I settle onto the motorcycle, reaching out my hand, waiting for her to grab it. She intertwines her fingers with mine, guiding herself onto the bike.
She wraps her arms around my waist, settling into place.
“Hold tight, sunshine,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.
“Always do,” she murmurs through the wired Bluetooth.
That small smile of hers flickers through my mind as I ease us down the driveway, the bike rumbling beneath us.
It’s just us and the open road.
Her arms tighten as I take the first turn, the wind tugging at her hair where it slips past the helmet’s edge.
She lets out a small, breathless laugh—God, I haven’t heard that sound in so long.
“You good back there?” I say through the Bluetooth connected to our helmets.
“I’m perfect,” she squeals, laughing again, and it hits me right in the chest.
A smile tugs at my lips as I reach back with one hand, just for a moment, and my fingers find the smooth skin of her thigh where the hem of my flannel rides up.
She stiffens for half a heartbeat, then relaxes, her hand covering mine.
I give her thigh a slow squeeze, my thumb lazily circling, a quiet reminder that she’s safe, right here with me.
She presses closer. “Don’t let go.”
“Never,” I promise.
We ride like that; her laughter carried on the breeze, her hand still over mine. The world around us blurs into streaks of green and orange, a view that doesn’t look real.
Every few miles, I glance down at our hands linked together, watching how her fingers twitch against mine as if she’s trying to memorize the feel of it.
We finally pull up to the ridge. The engine goes silent, and the world breathes a sigh of relief.
She slides off first, removing her helmet, her hair tousled by the wind. She’s flushed, with bright, shining eyes as she looks up at me, smiling so wide it takes my breath away. “That was—”
“Worth it?” I finish for her.
She nods, still breathless. “Every second.”
I set my helmet down and step close enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Told you I wouldn’t let you fall, sunshine.”
“I know,” she whispers, “You never do.”