She looks away, biting her lip, but I notice it, that spark. That part of her that’s finally beginning to believe she deserves happiness.
We sit there until the light begins to fade, our hands covered in paint, our brushes drying in the breeze.
She’s sitting cross-legged in front of me, her hair caught in the breeze, a pale yellow streak smudged across her cheek. She’s been quiet for a few minutes now, the brushresting in her lap, watching the light shift through the trees.
I lean back on my palms, trying not to stare too long. Her tank top’s speckled with color, her knees dusted with dirt.
She looks—God, she looks like peace.
“You did good, sunshine,” I murmur.
She glances up, her lips curling. “You mean we did. You made that weird-looking cloud, right?”
I chuckle. “That’s supposed to be a mountain.”
“It looks like mashed potatoes.”
I grin. “Guess I’m more of a mashed-potato kinda artist.”
Her laugh fades into a quiet smile. “You always know how to make me feel normal again.”
“You are normal,” I say softly.
She studies me for a long moment, her eyes tracing my face as if memorizing it. She sets her brush down and crawls closer across the grass, her knees brushing mine.
“Layla,” I whisper, voice rough. “You sure?”
She nods, just once. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Her hand rises slowly as her fingertips skim the paint from my scarred jaw. Her touch is gentle, slightly trembling, and it sends a shiver straight through me.
“You’ve been so gentle with me,” she says, barely above a whisper. “You never ask for anything.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. “You don’t owe me a thing, baby.”
“I know.” Her thumb gently traces my lower lip, smudging a yellow streak. “But I want this.”
I can smell the faint cherry note of her shampoo and the sun’s warmth on her skin. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, and then she leans in.
I don’t move until she closes the distance.
Her lips are soft and hesitant at first, tasting faintly of hazelnut and something sweet that’s uniquely hers. My hands twitch against the grass, every instinct screaming to touch her, to pull her closer, but I don’t.
Not yet. I let her lead and decide.
She kisses me again, this time deeper, her fingers sliding into my hair and tugging just enough to make me exhale into her mouth. When she finally pulls back, her breath catches, and her eyes are glassy yet steady.
“Sorry,” she whispers, though her voice holds a hint of a smile. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
I shake my head, a soft laugh escaping me as I cup her cheek, my thumb tracing the faint paint streak there. “Don’t you dare apologize for that.”
She leans into my touch, her eyes closing for a moment.
When she opens them again, she’s smiling. “You’ve got paint all over your face.”
I grin. “Worth it.”
The sun slips lower, bathing us in gold. She presses her forehead to mine, and our breaths mingle as we stay silent for a long moment.
