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.
