Ever After Awaits (Layla) novel Chapter 91

Chapter 91: Layla POV

My throat closes with emotion as I look at him and ask shakily, “You kept this?”

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I remember the day I gave him this as if it were just yesterday. It was about two weeks after he arrived in town. He had struggled to find himself and was willing to lose himself in his quest to be accepted by the ‘cool‘ kids.

He shrugs before answering, “I found it after a couple of years of being shuffled from foster home to foster home. And I didn’t want to forget what we had, ever again.”

I stare at the paper with its childish loops, and the memory of him, awkward and quiet and already too smart for the kids we grew up with, flits through my mind.

“You didn’t sit with them after that,” I reminisce.

“I didn’t need to,” he says, his voice low, “You had already picked me, and claimed me in

our childish way.”

I fold the note and hold it in my hand, like a sacred relic, as if it might disappear if I let

1. go.

“You’re the only one who never made me feel small,” he says, softer now, “Even when I felt like it in the beginning.”

I look at him as he watches me for a beat to see my reaction. Then he quietly and almost off–handedly says, “You always hated goodbyes,” referring to back in the day when I

couldn’t even stomach saying goodbye to him after being together the whole day, and

would ultimately see each other the next day again at school.

I nod as I say, “I still do.”

He tilts his head, his eyes on the horizon behind me now, saying, “Neither of us has to leave the other again; we could come home to each other every night.”

I don’t answer him, because I can’t. My throat is struggling to swallow, and my heart is thrashing in my chest at the speed of a jackhammer.

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Chapter 91: Layla POV

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He doesn’t press for a reply, though, only runs his pointer finger along the edge of the roof’s ledge absentmindedly, leaving me to replay his words in my head.

“I get why you’re hesitant,” he starts, “But if you’re waiting for someone to ask or give you permission to come home to us…” He pauses for a second as he looks at me again, his gaze steady and sure, and adds with a certainty that I wish I possessed right now, “You already have mine.”

His words settle in my chest like something I didn’t know I’d been waiting to hear.

He steps closer, slowly and deliberately, not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off his skin. His left hand finds my waist, causing my pulse to stutter, and then he leans in, but not to kiss me. Not yet, at least.

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His nose brushes lightly against mine like a whispered breath. Then, lowering his mouth

so that it hovers near my jaw, barely grazing my skin with his lips, his right hand’s fingertips start tracing lazy lines up and down the column of my neck, heightening his

sensory onslaught even more.

I don’t pull back, which makes him murmur, “Tell me to stop.”

When I don’t say a word, his lips move and brush just below my ear, slow and claiming. His hand on my neck slides higher, his fingertips at my jaw as he guides me, and I meet him halfway. The kiss isn’t rushed and is most definitely not tentative either. It’s all-

consuming and filled with the love we’ve already professed to each other.

His fingers curve at the back of my neck, pulling me even closer to him than I thought possible. My hands grip his hoodie like I need something to hold onto to ground me in this emotion–filled moment.

I don’t know how long it lasts–just that when it breaks, I can’t breathe right, and he looks like someone who’s been waiting years to do that.

For a few seconds, we stay like that, unable to break eye contact as our breathing returns

to normal.

He leans in one last time, his lips brushing mine–not another kiss, but a promise

between soulmates.

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“You don’t have to decide tonight,” he murmurs into the dusk, “But just so we’re clear…I won’t be patient for too long before I come and get you,” he continues, setting my heart

further aflame.

4

Later that night, I’m in bed, and my brain is fried from overthinking as I stare at the glowing screen of my phone.

Doing what any girl at the edge of an existential crisis does, I text the one person who

can make sense of the soap opera my life has become.

* Layla: You up? *

* Becca: It’s midnight. Do you even have to ask? *

* Layla: I’m screwed. *

* Becca: Spill bitch.

*

Layla: Xavier gave me a key. Cade told me the room next to his echoes. And AJ gave me a note that I had written to him in CRAYON when we were 7, then gave me permission to

come home. *

* Becca: STOP. Why is your life a fanfiction archive right now? *

‘Layla: What do I do? I can’t move in with them yet. Right? *

“Becca: Okay…but do you want to? *

Layla: That’s the part I don’t know. I want to be with all of them, even douche canoe Xavier. But it’s getting real. Like real–real. *

“Becca: Let me get this straight. You’re falling for four hot, emotionally scarred men who worship the emotional ruin you’ve become and are all low–key offering you a home, peace, and orgasms?”

* Layla: …when you say it like that, it sounds greedy. *

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* Becca: When I say it like that, it sounds like you’re the main character of your origin story, for a change.

* Layla: But what would others think?

* Becca: Fuck others. Except me, of course. Why don’t you build something with them? Something that fits all of you. Not the world. Not others‘ expectations.

Layla: You think that’s even possible?

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* Becca: I think if anyone can pull off an emotionally grounded, reverse harem love story while stress–eating Beantree muffins and threatening men with sarcasm…it’s you boo. *

* Layla: God, I love you!

*

* Becca: Obviously. I’m your harem handler and soulmate after all.

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