6. Reed
reed
. . .
The leather couch groans when I push myself upright, the cushions sagging like they’re as worn-out as I am. My back protests immediately, scar tissue stretched tight across my shoulder blades, the ache deep in my muscles lingering from a night of shifting and never finding rest.
My house is silent, heavy in the early hours before dawn. Fog covers the early morning light, blanketing the trees in sheer mist.
I rake my fingers down my mustache, the coarse stubble catching against my fingertips, and push to stand. My body aches in protest, scars itching like they always do when I move first thing in the morning.
Mustering under my breath, I glance toward the kitchen; coffee can wait.
I need to use the bathroom more, but the only one is in my bedroom.
Where she is.
My chest caves in, nerves coiling tightly as I walk down the hallway, my bare feet making the wood groan with each step. The door is slightly open, silver-gray light from the first signs of morning seeping through those wide windows, casting a soft, muted glow around the edges of the room.
I quickly look around the room until my eyes lock onto Layla’s relaxed body, tousled between the sheets.
She’s tangled between the quilt and a thin gray sheet. Diagonal across the mattress, her leg is hooked in the quilt, the other hanging off the side. Her arm rests on her stomach, her hand hanging limply, fingers curled between the sheets.
Her mouth is slightly open, lips parted in a relaxed, unselfconscious way. A faint little snore escapes, barely audible, and the sound stirs something loose in my chest.
Her hair, wild from sleep, a golden, messy halo, spills across my pillow, catching faint streaks of dawn that make the strands glow.
She looks so at ease pressed into my pillow, like she’s always belonged here.
I grip the doorframe harder than I should, my scars itching, pulling, burning like they want to remind me of what I am.
But for a moment, I let myself forget.
I let myself admire her.
Her chest rises and falls steadily, her lips twitching with some dream I’ll never understand. She’s wild, even while asleep; sprawled out, ungraceful, ridiculous.
And somehow the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
My throat tightens. A faint, reluctant smile tugs across my lips, a genuine one.
I shouldn’t linger, I shouldn’t let my mind wander down the dangerous path it wants to.
I imagine this as something ordinary; I fantasize about waking up with her here, in my space. In my life.
She’s engaged, Reed. You’re being considerate and letting her stay here so she doesn’t feel alone.
Fuck.
Shoving my internal thoughts aside, I push myself forward, careful as I slip past my bed, each step calculated so the floor doesn’t creak.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, but the image stays burned in my mind: Layla sprawled in my sheets, soft and unguarded, like she belongs nowhere else.
And God help me, I want to see it again tomorrow.
Flushing the toilet, hoping it doesn’t wake her, I quickly wash my hands, turn off the light, and head back out to make my escape back to the living room. The bathroom door clicks softly behind me as I step back into the bedroom.
I expect her to still be out cold, sprawled, and snoring like she was when I walked in.
But she isn’t.
Shit.
She shifts, groaning as she rolls onto her side, her hair sticking up in every direction. Her eyes blink open, hazy but alert in that way only morning people can manage. A yawn cracks across her face before she props herself up on one elbow.
“Busted,” she rasps, voice still thick with sleep. “Were you just watching me drool on your pillow?”
Heat crawls up the nape of my neck. Clearing my throat, I avert my eyes. “Needed the bathroom.”
She grins slowly and mischievously. “It’s okay, Reed. You just wanted to watch me sleep, admit it.”
“Bullshit,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
Her laugh is quiet yet bright, filling the room in a way that makes my chest ache. She sits all the way up, her ridiculous shirt slipping off one shoulder, her hair wild around her face. “For the record, I do not drool. I am a very dignified sleeper.”
“Right,” I deadpan, arching a brow. “Looked real dignified, half hanging off the bed.”
Her mouth drops open in mock offense. “You could’ve fixed me, you know. Tucked me in or something. Isn’t that southern hospitality?”
“Didn’t want to lose a hand,” I shoot back, finally letting the corner of my mouth twitch.
Her laugh erupts as she flops back onto the mattress, covering her face with both hands. “God, I can’t believe I’m getting roasted by you at six in the morning.”
I lean against the doorframe with my arms folded, just watching. Her sunshine burns away the quiet and heaviness until I almost forget it’s there.
“Coffee?” I ask finally.
She peeks at me between her fingers, smiling. “Only if you promise not to make fun of my pajamas.”
“No promises,” I mutter, but the smile lingers as I turn toward the kitchen.
For the first time in a long damn while, the morning doesn’t feel so heavy.
The coffee pot gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with the smell of dark roast. I lean against the counter with my arms crossed, watching the steady drip, waiting for the mug I know I’ll need to get through the day.
She drops into one of the chairs at the breakfast nook, with her legs tucked under her, and starts talking before I can even ask how she takes her coffee.
“Your house is crazy, Reed. These windows? They’re huge! Do you even have curtains? Because if not, you’re basically giving the squirrels a free show. Not that I’m judging. I think they’d enjoy it.”
Only she would be concerned about squirrels.
I shake my head, turning back to pour the coffee. “Don’t need curtains.”
“Bold of you to assume your neighbors aren’t peeking through binoculars,” she teases, chin in her hand. “If I lived across from this place, I’d totally creep.”
I snort, sliding a steaming mug across the counter toward her. She brightens immediately, wrapping both hands around the ceramic mug.
“Oh my God,” she sighs after the first sip. “You might have just saved my life. No offense to LA coffee shops, but this actually tastes like coffee, not burnt like oat milk that costs thirty dollars.”
I settle across from her with my own mug, watching as she rambles, her words spilling faster than the pot ever could.
“And this kitchen,” she continues, waving one hand dramatically, “is sooooo amazing. The wood? The stone? The whole rugged man lives here, but somehow knows what color palette is the vibe? Did you design this yourself?”
I shrug, sipping my coffee. “Catalina and Amelia helped, mostly.”
She rolls her eyes, setting her mug down with a clink. “Well, they did an amazing job.”
Her grin is too bright, too effortless. And even though I only give her a slight shake of my head, I feel a warm spark ignite in my chest.
She doesn’t notice, as she keeps rambling about different topics all at once.
She talks about wanting to change her content, but her nervousness makes me wonder why—mentions how Amelia once threatened to toss a crystal at Maverick if he didn’t stop stealing her snacks.
Describes how Catalina swears by lavender-scented candles, even though Layla thinks all flower-scented products smell the same.
Choosing not to say much, I sip my coffee and listen to her intently, yet I hang onto every word.
I barely finish half my mug, and she’s already up again, padding barefoot across the wood floors until she’s in front of my fridge. She swings open the stainless steel doors and bends at the waist, peering inside.
“Okay, first of all,” she calls out, voice muffled by the shelves, “you have the most bachelor fridge I’ve ever seen. Eggs, beer, leftover takeout, and… oh my God, Reed, you actually have a jar of pickles. Amelia would cry tears of joy.”
I arch a brow, leaning back in my chair. “You always go through people’s fridges?”
She pops up with the jar of pickles in hand, grinning. “Only when I’m hungry. Which is always.” She twists the lid, takes one out, and crunches happily before continuing like she never left off. “You’re missing out, by the way. Pickles at breakfast? Elite move. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
I shake my head, amused despite myself.
“Why the interest in my bar?” I ask finally.
She pauses for a moment, jar still in her hand, then turns to look at me. The humor fades, and her expression becomes steadier, more vulnerable.
“Because it feels real,” she says simply.
“So much of what I film in LA is staged, curated, filtered. But Boots about capturing the glow of the bottles against the shelves, and about filming small snippets of conversation between patrons.
I don’t stop her.
Because as she talks, I realize something; she sees the bar the way I once did, not as a reminder of what I lost, but as a place worth building.
And damn it, that makes me want to see it through her eyes, too.
She’s pacing now, with the pickle jar forgotten on the counter, her notebook open in one hand while the other waves wildly as she talks.
“Okay, imagine this,” she says, spinning on her heel, hair flying around her face.
“A mini-series: Night at Boots the neon glow outside, people laughing, glasses clinking. And then you’re behind the bar, all broody bartender, but secretly soft.
The internet would eat you up, Reed. I promise. ”
Her pen scratches across the page, creating messy loops and arrows connecting half-formed ideas.
“We could do themed nights, too. Oh! Maybe a girls’ night highlight where we show which cocktails pair with which songs.
People love that interactive stuff. And—wait, wait—do you still have that dartboard?
Because, Reed, I swear to God, we could make a whole thing out of ‘drunk dart confessions.’ Viral. Instantly viral.”
She’s smiling brightly, words pouring out faster than I can follow, stumbling over themselves as she rushes to say them. Her sunshine lights up every corner of the room, banishing shadows that have stayed too long.
I sit at the table, coffee cooling in my hands, just absorbing all her radiance and beauty.
The way her nose scrunches when she’s excited; the furrow of her brows when she scribbles something down; the little bounce in her step as she moves from the fridge, to the counter, to the table, and back again, like her body can’t contain the energy.
She doesn’t even notice me staring, and I shouldn’t be.
I know that, but I can’t help it.
A faint but genuine smile touches my lips, feeling strange—foreign, almost—after years of forcing them for strangers at the bar. This one comes easily, sparked just by watching her be exactly who she is.
Her light. My shadows.
She talks and talks, and I let her because every word reminds me that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to sit in the dark forever.