That draws another laugh out of me, the only person who can make me laugh so easily.
She peeks up through her lashes, cheeks flushed a pretty rosy pink, blue eyes bright, and for a moment, time stops.
Reaching out, I instinctively brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath stutters slightly, her gaze snapping up to mine.
“There,” I mumble. “Much better.”
Her lips curve into a coy smile, a soft laugh slipping through. “Such a gentleman, Reed.”
“Maybe.”
But my voice comes out softer than it should. Her eyes linger on me, and suddenly it’s too quiet, just the background noise from the TV spilling into the kitchen, her perfume mingling with the smell of fries.
She whispers, “You’re still smiling.”
I shrug, retreating my touch from her, and my thumb brushes against my knee. “Guess you’re contagious.”
Her laugh this time is smaller, almost shy, but it fills every inch of the room.
She blinks, a little stunned, then laughs nervously this time, but it fills the whole space anyway.
“Fine,” she sighs. “But now, I’m forcing you to watchShe’s All That.”
“Deal.”
She’s still laughing softly as I stand and offer her a hand. Her fingers slip into mine, still trembling slightly from the scare. I help her up, and she stands there for a heartbeat too long, gazing up at me with that gentle, bright grin that always seems to disarm me effortlessly.
“Come on,” I say quietly, nodding toward the living room. “We’ll watch your movie, no more clowns.”
“Thank God,” she sighs, grabbing her limp fry from the floor. “My heart rate can’t take cinematic trauma tonight.”
We walk back to the couch, hand in hand. Once we’re both seated, we let each other go, and the feel of her hand not intertwined with mine feelswrong.
I scroll through the streaming options until I land on the movie she wanted. She curls into the corner of the couch with her legs tucked under her, as she grabs one of my throw blankets and wraps it around herself.
The light from the screen flickers across her face, catching the beauty marks speckled on her cheek and neck. For a few minutes, she’s quiet, and I think maybe she’s winding down, but then she perks up again, turning to me.
“So, I’ve been editing all day,” she says suddenly, like the thought just burst out. “Well, not today-today, ‘cause plane Wi-Fi is garbage, but yesterday. The footage that I have is coming together nicely. We can film some more tomorrow.”
I glance over at her as my arm rests on the back of the couch. “You got it, sunshine.”
She grins, biting her lower lip, which drives me mad, as she turns her attention back to the movie.
The movie keeps playing, but neither of us is really watching.
She starts talking again—about camera angles, color grading, the way she wants to film in natural light next time—and I listen.
Her soft voice fills the room, cutting through the quiet that used to feel so heavy here.
She yawns and tucks herself deeper into the blanket, her words beginning to slow, her sentences stretched, and I know she’s seconds from falling asleep mid-thought.
And somehow, with her in my house, half-asleep on my couch, I realize the quiet doesn’t feel empty anymore.
It takes about five minutes for her to fall asleep, the movie still flickering on the TV, low enough that the sound barely reaches over the hum of the heater.
The blanket slips slightly off her shoulder, and her hair spills over the cushion in tangled, blonde waves.
I continue studying her, and her hair isn’t just blonde; I’m able to see it now, beneath my glasses.
