31. Reed
reed
. . .
She leaves in two days, and I wanted to take her out on that “date” she declared when we were out by the wild sunflower patch.
“You gotta trust me,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road even as I feel her watching me.
She narrows her eyes anyway. I can hear it in her voice. “I don’t like that tone.”
“It’s a good tone,” I argue. “A trustworthy one.”
She laughs nervously. “That’s exactly what someone says before a surprise I’m not emotionally prepared for.”
I reach over and rest my hand on her thigh, grounding us both. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, familiar already in a way that still catches me off guard.
She studies my face, glancing down as my hand settles on her thigh.
Her hand moves to mine, instantly warming my skin as her fingers curl around mine.
“Okay,” she says, smiling to herself. “I trust you, which feels bold of me.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “It’s earned.”
“Debatable,” she murmurs, but her thumb begins tracing slow lines over my knuckles.
The road stretches out as I keep driving.
I keep pretending my chest isn’t doing that thing it does when she touches me like this, like she’s chosen me without making a big deal of it.
“Is this a close-your-eyes surprise?” she asks.
“No,” I say immediately.
She looks relieved. “Good. I hate those.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
She laughs and squeezes my hand again. It does something to me. Settles me and wrecks me all in the same breath.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing over, like she can feel the shift.
“Yeah,” I say, honestly. “Just glad you’re here.”
Her smile softens as she leans back into the seat, still holding my hand.
I guide us down the road, heart full and steady, already knowing—whatever’s waiting up ahead, the best part is right here.
She keeps her hand wrapped around mine as we drive, her thumb continuing to trace those slow, absent lines over my knuckles.
The road narrows, trees closing in just enough that the world feels smaller and quieter.
She tilts her head toward the window, watching the dark roll by. “You’re being very calm for someone who has a surprise.”
“That’s because I’ve already seen your face when you’re happy,” I say. “I’m not worried.”
She snorts softly. “That’s unfairly confident.”
I glance over at her, the dash lights catching the curve of her smile and the way her eyes flicker when she’s trying not to overthink.
She squeezes my hand, and my heart squeezes in that quiet way it’s been lately.
We crest a small hill, and I feel her notice the change before she sees it.
Her grip tightens just a little. “Reed,” she says softly.
I ease my truck forward, the old theater sign coming into view, washed in that faint, nostalgic glow.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did.”
I pull into a parking spot and cut the engine.
The night settles around us as crickets chirp, distant murmurs, and the low crackle of a speaker warming up nearby.
I don’t move my hand from her thigh, not yet.
She turns to look at me, really looks at me, her eyes bright in that way that makes me feel like I’ve done something right.
“I didn’t think—” She stops, shaking her head as she laughs under her breath. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“You asked.”
Her fingers lace tighter with mine, and she leans slightly toward me, her shoulder brushing my arm.
“I like that about you,” she says. “You listen.”
I squeeze her hand back gently. “I like that you notice things.”
She smiles, resting her head against my shoulder before we get out of the car and head inside.
The theater is emptying around us; murmurs, footsteps, the occasional cough.
We stay in our seats, shoulders brushing, her pinky hooked loosely around mine under the armrest, as if neither of us wants to be the first to break contact.
Eventually, she turns her head just enough for me to catch the small, private smile she’s trying to hide.
“Ready?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “Yeah.”
We walk out together, taking our time as my hand finds the small of her back again. She leans into it just enough that I feel her warmth through the thin cotton of her sundress.
Outside, the sky is clear, and the moon is full, spilling silver across the asphalt.
My truck is parked at the far edge of the lot, away from the lights. We make our way there, and I open the passenger door for her.
She climbs in, the hem of her dress riding up her thighs as she settles. I shut the door, circle around, and slide behind the wheel.
I don’t reach to press the button to start the engine, not yet.
Moonlight pours through the windshield, catching on the dashboard, the steering wheel, and her.
She’s already half-turned toward me with her leg tucked under her as moonlight slides across her cheekbones, pooling in the hollow of her throat, and turning her eyelashes into soft shadows.
Her lips are still a little swollen from how she kept biting them during the quiet scenes. Her hair is messy from how she kept pushing it behind her ear every time, a nervous cue I’ve come to love.
I can’t look away.
She catches me staring, of course she does.
“What is it?” she asks, her voice soft and teasing, but there’s a tremor beneath it as she lifts her eyebrow.
“Nothing,” I lie.
“Bullshit.” She tilts her head, moonlight slipping down the side of her neck. “What’s going on in there?” She taps her temple, then points at mine.
I let out a breath that’s more shudder than exhale. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah.” Her voice drops. “I really do.”
I reach over to her as my fingers find the side of her face, and my thumb brushes the corner of her lips.
Her breath seizes as her eyes flutter half-closed.
I lean in, and our mouths meet like we’ve done it a thousand times, because with her, everything feels so familiar. With her, I feel complete. With her, I feel like we’re on the same frequency, and fuck, I can’t get enough.
My heart beats with hers, always hers.
She opens for me immediately, tasting of buttered popcorn, cherry ChapStick, and want.
I groan low in my throat; the sound vibrates between us, and she answers with a small, broken whimper that goes straight through me.
My other hand slides to the back of her neck, as my fingers thread through her hair, tilting her head so I can take more.
I pull back just enough to breathe as I press my forehead to hers, our noses brushing.
Our lips are so close I can feel every shaky exhale we both take.
“I don’t want you to go.” I rasp.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, right over my heart. “Then, keep kissing me.”
I kiss her again, harder, more desperate.
She makes a needy little sound and climbs halfway into my lap without breaking contact, as her knee is braced on the seat between my thighs.
Her hands slide up my chest, as her nails scrape lightly through my flannel, then into my hair, tugging just enough to make my scalp sting.
I growl and nip her bottom lip, sharp enough to make her gasp, soft enough to make her arch closer.
“Fuck, Layla,” I mutter against her lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.”
“Since our hot kiss on the couch?” she whispers, voice trembling but sure.
“Before that,” I whisper, peppering kisses along her jaw and down her throat. “Since the first night you walked into Boots of never knowing what it feels like to love you out loud.”
She searches my face for a long moment before she leans in and kisses me, her lips trembling against mine.
Pulling back just enough to speak, she brushes her lips against mine with each word.
“I don’t know how to do this yet,” she breathes. “But I want you. I’ve always wanted you, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
I cup her face with both hands, as both of my thumbs stroke her cheekbones.
“Then don’t pretend,” I say against her mouth. “Not with me. Not anymore.”
She nods.
I kiss her again, longer this time, savoring every slide of her tongue against mine, every soft sound she makes when I nip her bottom lip, every time her hips shift and press closer.
My hands roam down her back, over her hips, up her sides, learning the shape of her body like I’ve been starving for years.
Because I fucking have been.