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 filteringthrough 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.”
