We both stand there, close enough that the fabric of his shirt brushes my arm when he shifts his weight.
Without his glasses, he looks different. The scars along his cheek catch the light, each one a story he hasn’t told me yet. His beard and mustache are trimmed close, framing his mouth, and I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if he kissed me.
The silence stretches, and I can hear the faint hum of the fridge behind the bar and the whisper of the neon sign outside. Every other sound feels miles away.
His gaze drifts, not in a creepy, deliberate way, but in a way that feels unavoidable. He starts from my eyes to my mouth, then back again, the muscle in his jaw tenses once before he looks away.
I should move.
He should move.
Neither of us does.
“You shouldn’t stare at your nails as you walk,” he says finally, his voice quiet but rough.
“You shouldn’t run into people,” I shoot back, because humor is easier than admitting my pulse is losing its rhythm.
His mouth curves just slightly. “You always have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Occupational hazard,” I whisper, my eyes flicking down to where his hand rests on the doorframe beside my shoulder. His fingers twitch slightly, and it feels like the entire room reacts with him.
He exhales slowly. “Layla…” he begins, but then stops, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.
“What?” I ask, too soft, too curious, too everything.
Kiss me.
He meets my eyes again, and for a moment, it feels like gravity shifts—like every rule, every line, every quiet promise he’s made to himself is pulling tight.
But then he blinks, steps aside, and the spell shatters.
“Thank you for helping,” he says, voice calm again, even though his hand is still braced against the wall as if he needs it to stay upright.
I swallow hard and nod, forcing a small smile. “You’re welcome.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, looking down, and for a moment, I see it, the faint blush rising on his cheeks.
Maybe he doesn’t say a word, but the silence between us speaks everything neither of us has the courage to say.
reed
. . .
Sleep won’t come.
I’ve been lying on the couch for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling fan turning slow, steady circles in the dark.
Every creak of the house, every tick of the clock seems louder at night. I shift, rolling onto my side, then my back, tossing the blanket off again.
I keep replaying the moment at my bar; my hands on her waist, the warmth of her skin seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt, the soft hitch in her breath when I didn’t let go right away.
She looked up at me with those bright blue, unguarded eyes, and for a second, it felt like the world had gone still, holding its breath for me to make a move I never made.
Fuck.
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face. My chest feels too tight, my thoughts too loud.
Faintly, from somewhere out back, music softly plays, but the beat is anything but quiet.
