Reed
. . .
Five Months later
Five months.
That’s how long it’s been since she showed up at my door, broken, bruised, and shaking so hard I thought she’d splinter on my porch. Five months since she whispered my name like it was the last safe thing she knew.
Now she’s here, with me.
Layla has made this place feel alive again, has made me feel alive again. She’s barefoot most of the time, wrapped in one of my shirts, editing videos at the table with a cup of coffee with more ice than the actual drink, but I love her for it.
She still makes content, but it’s no longer the glossy, filtered kind.
It’s real.
She speaks about healing, leaving, and starting over when the world says it’s too late. She uses her voice for something meaningful; to reach women and men who have been in her place, telling them it’s okay to begin again.
Her following doubled. Shit, maybe tripled.
She doesn’t even seem to notice anymore. She used to be so worried about her followers, her content, how she looked, whether they’d like her without Brian.
Every time I watch her record, I see the strength it takes for her to say the words out loud.
The slight tremor in her hands before she presses record. The calm that washes over her when she finishes.
I’m so fucking proud of her.
Brian’s in jail now, good, that’s what he deserves.
He has been since that night at my house, when he pounded on my door.
The cops made sure the charges stuck—assault, trespassing, domestic violence. He’s got time to think about what he did.
But if he ever shows his face in Ruby Ridge again, it won’t be the law he’ll answer to; he’ll answer to me again, and I’ll fucking break him to keep her safe.
She’s safe now, and I’ll make damn sure it stays that way.
Still, the nightmares come.
She’ll wake in the middle of the night, trembling, her breath caught in her throat.
Sometimes she doesn’t even realize she’s crying until I wipe away her tears. I’ll pull her close, press my lips to her hair, whispering gentle words until her heartbeat slows.
She always apologizes for it, and I always tell her the same thing. “You don’t have to be okay all the time to be safe.”
And the truth is, I get it, I understand it more than she knows. This ache I’ve dealt with for years comes back to haunt me, too.
Because I still wake up some nights, too. Not because of her screams, but because of my own.
Beau’s voice still rings in my mind, the moment he stopped talking, the hiss of gas, the flash that took him.
My brother in the firehouse, my best friend.
I survived. He didn’t. And some nights I still hate myself for it.
I’ll catch my reflection in the mirror, the scars that crawl up my neck, the twisted ones on my shoulder, and all I can think is monster.
I see the damage before anything else.
The melted skin, the uneven lines, the reminders that I wasn’t fast enough.
Layla never looks away.
The first time she saw me without my shirt, I flinched instinctively, trying to hide what I could.
But she stepped closer, her hands trembling, eyes soft. She traced the scars with her fingertips, slowly as if she was learning them by heart.
“You survived this,” she whispered. “That means you’re stronger than what tried to break you.”
I wanted to believe her, and I still try to with the daily reassurance she gives me.
But some nights, when I’m alone in the shower, I trace those same lines and wonder why I get to keep breathing when Beau didn’t.
Grief is a strange thing. It doesn’t truly end; it just settles somewhere deep and surfaces when a particular smell hits you or when you see something that reminds you of them.
But Layla makes the weight easier to carry.
She doesn’t try to fix me; she just sits beside me in silence as she rests her head on my shoulder, her thumb absentmindedly tracing circles over the old burns, silently reminding me that she sees me, not the scars.
We’re both rebuilding our lives here together in Ruby Ridge, and she finally has the power to do it her way.
She paints again, barefoot in the backyard on Saturdays. She laughs more, eats better, and teases me at the bar when I’m too serious.
Some nights, she’ll work beside me, helping close up. And closing time… well, let’s just say we’ve turned that into something worth staying late for.
But even outside the heat and laughter, it’s her quiet moments that get to me. The way she holds herself now.
She left, and she chose herself. And while choosing herself, she built a new life from the ashes.
I know something about that because when she showed up, I was still stuck in mine.
I’ll still see ghosts in every corner—my mama, Beau, the man I used to be before everything burned.
I’d convinced myself I was too scarred to be loved again. Too broken. But then she looked at me and saw something worth saving.
Some nights, when we’re closing up, and she’s perched on the bar counter with paint still on her fingers, she’ll reach for me, her eyes soft and full of mischief.
I’ll press a kiss to her scarless shoulder, my hands memorizing the feel of her, and I’ll think, maybe this is what healing looks like.
It’s not about forgetting, but about finding someone who makes the pain easier to bear.
She’s still carrying her scars on the inside. I’ve got mine on the outside.
Somehow, they fit together.
And every morning I wake up beside her with her hand curled over mine, and I whisper a thank-you to the ghosts that stayed behind.
Because they led her here.
And for the first time since that fire, since my mama’s last breath, since Beau’s name became a whisper in my chest…I’m not surviving anymore.
I’m living.
“Reed.”
I blink, looking up; she’s watching me from across the bar, eyebrow raised.
“You okay?” she asks, snapping her fingers once, teasing but gentle. “You’ve been staring at that receipt for five minutes, baby. It’s not gonna give you life advice.”
I let out a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Sorry, sunshine. Got lost in my head.”
She smirks, setting the rag aside, and leans on the counter, her chin resting on her hand. “Must’ve been something deep. You had that faraway look going on again.”
I can’t help but grin. “You mean rugged and mysterious?”
“I mean brooding and distracted,” she fires back, her eyes glinting with mischief.
“Same thing,” I mutter.
She rolls her eyes and walks around the counter. “You’ve been thinking again,” she says softly, sliding between my knees where I’m sitting on the stool. “About Beau?”
I nod slowly, wrapping my hands around her waist. “Yeah. Him. Mama. All of it.”
Her hands come up, looping around my neck. “You miss them.”
“Every damn day.” My voice roughens, barely a whisper. “Some days it’s easier. Some days, I see his face in the flames again. Or I hear Mama’s laugh when I’m closing up. I just… wish they could see this. You. Us.”
Her eyes soften as she presses a kiss to my forehead. “I think they do, Reed.”
I shake my head, my throat tight. “I don’t know. I still ain’t sure I deserve any of this.”
She frowns and moves closer. “Don’t say that.” She gestures with her hands, tracing the scar that runs over my jaw. “You do. You more than do. You kept going. That’s what they’d be proud of.”
Her touch burns in the best way, anchoring me.
I hold her hand with mine, keeping it there. “I love you.”
She smirks, kissing me ever so softly. “I love you more.”
I tug her closer until there’s no space between us. “Not possible,” I murmur.
We stand there for a brief moment in the glow of the bar lights; her breathing steady, mine trying to keep up.
She tilts her head, smiling softly. “You always go quiet when you start thinking too hard.”
“Maybe I also like watching you work,” I tease, my thumb brushing her hip.
“Oh yeah?” she says, grinning. “Pretty sure you’ve been staring at the same stack of receipts since we opened.”
I chuckle, leaning forward so my forehead rests against hers. “Can you blame me?”
She laughs quietly, her breath ghosting over my lips. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “But you’re the one who keeps showin’ up for it.”
Her eyes sparkle, and I swear the whole world slows down. “Guess I’m just a sucker for a man who makes good cocktails.”
“And locks up late,” I murmur softly, “so no one interrupts when I kiss you.”
Before she can respond, I tilt my head and kiss her, full of all the unspoken things I don’t know how to say out loud.
She melts into me, her hands sliding up my neck, gentle over the scars.
When she finally pulls back, she’s smiling, cheeks flushed. “Bar’s supposed to close at midnight, we’re on the clock.”
I grin, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “Then I guess we’re gettin’ some overtime.”
She swats at me, laughing, but doesn’t move away.
And for the first time in a long damn while, I’m not haunted by what I’ve lost.
I’m anchored by what I found, her.
Her laughter lingers, bringing me back to the present, echoing off the old wood and neon hum.
Fuck, I’m about to propose to her, and I’m nervous.
“Reed,” she says softly, a small crease forming between her brows as she taps my forehead. “What’s going on in that head of yours? You look like you’re about to give me bad news.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “No bad news, sunshine. Just trying to get this right.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “Trying to get what right? Oh my God, are we going to have some fun on the mechanical bull, again?”
Her teasing is gentle, but it’s the exact push I need. My heart pounds so loud I swear she can hear it.
“No, baby,” I admit, gently pushing her forward as I step back, my boots heavy on the wood floor. “It’s something else.”
She blinks, her lips parting slightly as I stand to my full height and stop in front of her.
My hand rises to cup her jaw, my thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You have no idea how much light you brought into this place,” I mumble. “Into me.”
Her voice drops, barely audible. “Reed…”
I take a slow breath and drop to one knee.
Her hand quickly moves to her mouth, eyes wide and shimmering immediately.
The bar falls silent except for the rain and the faint thrum of my heartbeat in my ears.