The first thing I notice is the light. Those massive windows I saw outside also stretch across the walls here, flooding the living room with natural light. Even at night, with only a few lamps turned on, the space feels expansive, as if the darkness itself can’t quite intrude.
His living room centers around a large dark brown leather couch, positioned opposite a brick fireplace with a wooden beam atop it.
A pile of split logs sits in a metal bin nearby, a small detail that feels intimate and personal. The wooden mantle above is empty, except for a couple of framed photos that are too far away for me to see clearly.
Wide-plank oak flooring runs through his home, covered in a simple rug that softens the center, with muted yellow hues woven into geometric patterns. Shelves run along one wall, sparsely filled with old books and a few records.
I stand just inside the door, my heart racing as I take it all in because it feels like him, and I don’t know what to do with that.
He places his keys in a small dish on an end table nearthe door, but he doesn’t look at me right away, and maybe I’m grateful because I’m not sure I could handle the weight of his gaze while I stand here, drowning in the feeling that I don’t belong.
Brian’s words—I don’t fucking care—still sink their poisonous claws into my mind. I want to crumble. To let the tears out. But instead, I straighten my spine, paste the smile back onto my face as if it’ll keep me from falling apart.
“This place is…” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat, forcing it steady. “It’s beautiful, Reed.”
He finally looks at me, his green eyes soft in the dim light. And for the briefest second, the heaviness inside me lifts, like maybe I’m not carrying it alone.
Reed moves further into the house, and I follow behind him, my sneakers whispering over the wood floors. He flicks on a lamp in the hallway, casting saffron rays that spill over the simple lines of his space—clean, uncluttered, yet heavy with the feeling of someone who lives alone.
He pauses at the end of the hall, his hand resting against the doorframe of a bedroom. “So...” His voice is low and rough, like gravel being turned over. “I only have one bed.”
My heart flips.
He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the floor as though the grain of the wood is suddenly fascinating. “You can take it. I’ll crash on the couch.”
I shift on my heels, my pulse pounding in my ears. The thought of him giving up his bed for me, the idea of him lying awake on a couch while I stretch out in his space, it tightens something in my chest.
“Reed, I don’t want to?—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts in, still not looking at me. His voice is steady, but his jaw flexes. “I’ve slept on worse.”
The silence stretches awkwardly, and suddenly every inch between us feels significant.
I finally risk a glance at him, the flannel stretches across his broad shoulders, the reflection of his glasses catching the lamplight—the scar tissue stark against his cheekbone. My fingers itch with the urge to touch, to reach out, to close the gap, but I curl my fingers inward, my nails biting against my palm.
“It’s late,” I blurt out nervously. My smile wobbles, and I force it wider. “We can talk about the content ideas tomorrow.”
He finally looks up, those fiery eyes pinning me in place, softer now but still sharp enough to make my stomach flip.
“Looking forward to it,” he says quietly.
The awkwardness transforms into something else, something dangerous, a hum under my skin like static ready to spark.
He steps aside, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, before gesturing me in. I swallow hard, taking my duffel from his hand, and slip past him into his room.
I look over my shoulder, whispering, “Goodnight, Reed.”
“Goodnight, Layla,” he says, a small twinkle in his eyes.
He closes the door softly for me, the sound of his footsteps retreating into the living room.
I let out the breath I was holding, my gaze sweeping over his room.
It feels… intimate.
His space is simple but deeply personal, the kind of room that carries a man’s weight in its silence. A king-sized bed sits against the far wall, sheets dark and crisp, tucked with military precision. A heavy, worn quilt lies folded at the edge of the bed.
There’s a nightstand with only the essentials: an alarm clock, a small stack of books, and a half-empty glass of water. One wall is bare except for a large window that lets in the night, moonlight spilling in silver streaks across the floorboards.
