I told myself leaving her at the creek was the right thing to do. I told myself distance was safer. That was a lie.
The truth is standing in that parking lot watching another man put his hands on her almost sent me feral. Watching her say no and not be listened to flipped something dark and violent in my chest. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I just moved.
Because when Layla looked shaken… when her voice went sharp and defensive… when her eyes got glassy—
I can’t breathe. I shut the truck off and step out into the rain. The guest house light is still on. Of course it is.
She’s probably pacing. Overthinking. Replaying every second like I am. She does that, I can see it in the way her eyes drift when she’s quiet. The way she holds herself like she’s bracing for disappointment.
And fuck me, I am the disappointment.
She’s beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you. Not loud, not polished. Soft curves, strong presence. The kind of woman you notice in pieces — the sway of her hips when she walks, the confidence in her mouth when she talks back, the way she looks at you like she’s daring you to be honest.
I want her.
God, I want her so bad it scares me.
Not just her body, though that alone is enough to wreck me. Thick thighs I can’t stop thinking about. The way she fills space like she belongs there. The way she moves like she knows exactly what she does to people.
But it’s more than that.
It’s how she laughs without apology. How she asks questions that matter. How she looks at me like I’m not broken goods. Like I’m just a man who hasn’t been touched right in a long time.
When she’s near me, my skin feels too tight. My pulse won’t settle. Every instinct in me wants to pull her in, press her back against something solid, make her feel wanted — make her feel chosen.
I don’t trust myself around her.
That’s the truth I couldn’t say in the truck. Because if I touch her again, I won’t stop at a kiss. And if I let myself have her—really have her—I don’t know how I’d survive letting her go.
The rain soaks through my shirt as I cross the yard, cold and relentless. Gravel crunches under my boots, too loud in the quiet night, every step sounding like a bad decision I’m already committed to. My heart’s pounding like I’m about to do something reckless.
I am.
I stop at her door. Lift my hand. Hesitate—just long enough to feel how badly I want to turn around.
Then I knock. Once. Hard.
And I don’t move.
Chapter 12
The Kind Of Love We Make
Layla
I’m pacing the house, barefoot, wearing a path into the floor like I might wear myself out if I keep moving. My hands won’t stop shaking. The place feels too quiet, too empty, like it’s holding its breath just to piss me off. I can’t believe that’s how tonight ended. I can’t believe him.
Who ignores chemistry like that? Not the polite kind. The kind that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. The kind you don’t imagine—you recognize.
I’ve only been here three weeks, but we see each other every damn day. We orbit each other like it’s a bad habit, like neitherof us knows how to stop. So what am I missing? Am I making this up? Or is he just better at lying to himself than I am?
He said he doesn’t trust himself around me.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Seattle feels impossibly far away tonight. Too far to reach, too far to hide behind. I’m drunk enough that the room tilts when I stop pacing, my stomach rolling like I might actually lose it if I stand still too long. Everything in me feels raw and tight and pissed off.
Why does it feel like I’m in a fight with someone I’m not even with?
