Chapter 156: Cade's POV

The highway stretches out ahead of us, empty and gray under overcast skies.

Layla hasn't said a word since we left twenty minutes ago. Just sits in the passenger seat staring out the window, her hand limp in mine where it rests on the center console.

She's just... still.

The wrong kind of still.

I keep glancing over at her. Her profile against the window—sharp jaw, the curve of her neck, that little furrow between her eyebrows that never quite goes away. She looks fragile in a way that makes my chest hurt.

I want to say something. Ask if she's okay. Tell her it'll be alright.

But sometimes the best thing you can say is nothing at all.

So I just drive.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I ignore it. Buzzes again.

"You can check it," Layla says quietly. First words since we got in the truck.

"It's fine."

"It's probably the guys."

I check at the next red light.

Xavier: Where are you taking her?

Me: North coast. That spot near Crescent Bay.

AJ: We're coming. Give us 30 to pack.

Me: Take your time. She needs space right now.

Xavier: What happened?

I glance at Layla. She's closed her eyes, head resting against the window.

Me: Her mother sent a letter. Personal. Bad.

Xavier: How bad?

Me: 'I regret ever having you' bad.

I set the phone down. The light turns green.

---

Forty minutes later, the landscape starts to change. Trees thin out, giving way to scrub grass and sand dunes. The air smells different here—salt and kelp and something wild.

Layla shifts, sitting up straighter. "We're close."

"Yeah." I roll down the windows. "Five more minutes."

She breathes in deep, eyes closed. Some of the tension in her shoulders eases.

The parking lot's nearly empty when we pull in. I grab the blanket from the back seat, the cooler I packed while Layla was getting her shoes.

"Come on," I say. "Let's get you closer."

She takes my hand, lets me help her out. The wind immediately whips her hair around her face. She doesn't push it back.

We walk down to the beach in silence, my hand on her lower back. She stops at the waterline. Just stands there, staring out at the endless gray-blue expanse.

I spread the blanket a few feet back. "Want to sit?"

"Not yet."

So we stand. The waves roll in with that rhythmic crash that makes everything else feel small.

After a long moment, she says: "She meant it."

I don't ask what she's talking about.

"The letter. She didn't write it in anger. She wrote it carefully. Deliberately." Her voice is eerily calm. "She took the time to choose her words. To make sure they'd hurt as much as possible."

"Yeah."

"She regrets having me." Layla's still staring at the horizon. "My own mother regrets that I exist."

I want to tell her it doesn't matter. That her mother's opinion doesn't define her worth.

But right now, she doesn't need me to fix it. She needs me to witness it.

"That's a fucked up thing to say to your kid," I say instead.

"Yeah." She wraps her arms around herself. "It really is."

Another wave crashes.

"You know what the worst part is?" Her voice cracks. "Part of me still wants to fix it. Still wants to call her and ask what I did wrong. How I could make her love me."

"Layla—"

"I know it's stupid. I know she's never going to change." She finally looks at me, eyes dry but devastated. "But I can't turn off that part of me that still wants a mom."

I pull her into my arms, and she comes willingly, pressing her face against my chest. Her whole body's trembling.

"You're allowed to want that," I murmur into her hair. "You're allowed to grieve what you never had. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

"I hate it." Her voice is muffled against my shirt. "I hate that she can still hurt me."

"I know."

"I want to not care. I want to just... let her go."

"You will. But not today. Today you get to feel it."

She makes a sound—half laugh, half sob. "You sound like AJ."

"AJ's a smart guy."

We stand like that for a while. Her tears soak through my shirt. I don't care.

Finally, she pulls back slightly. "I want to scream."

I blink. "What?"

"I want to scream at the ocean. Get it all out. Is that weird?"

"No." I cup her face, brush away her tears. "Not weird at all."

"Will you scream with me?"

"I'll do whatever you need."

She steps back, looks out at the water. Takes a deep breath.

And screams.

It's raw and primal and full of every ounce of pain she's been carrying. The wind catches it, carries it out over the waves.

She does it again. Louder this time.

I join her. Don't even think about it, just open my mouth and let everything pour out—every protective instinct, every surge of rage at the woman who hurt her, every moment of helplessness.

We scream together at the indifferent ocean.

When we finally stop, breathing hard, Layla's laughing. Actually laughing—surprised and a little wild.

"Feel better?" I ask.

"I don't know." She wipes her eyes. "But I feel something. That's better than nothing."

"Come on." I take her hand, pull her toward the water's edge. "Let's get our feet wet."

"It's freezing."

"Exactly."

The first wave hits our ankles and she gasps, but she doesn't pull away.

We stand there in the shallows, cold water rushing over our feet, and something in her expression shifts. Softens.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"For what?"

"For not trying to talk me out of it. For just..." She squeezes my hand. "For just being here."

"Always." I press a kiss to her temple. "For as long as you need me."

"What if I need you forever?"

The question catches me off guard. The vulnerability in it.

"Then forever it is," I say simply.

She leans into me, and we stand there until our feet go numb. Until the sun starts breaking through the clouds.

"Okay," she finally says. "I'm ready to sit now."

We wade back to the blanket, collapse onto it. I pull out chocolate croissants, water bottles, chips from the cooler.

"You packed snacks?" She sounds surprised.

"Of course I packed snacks. What kind of boyfriend do you think I am?"

"The best kind." She takes a croissant. "The kind who drives two hours at a moment's notice and doesn't ask questions."

"That's not being a good boyfriend. That's just being in love with you."

The words slip out before I can stop them.

She goes still. "What?"

Fuck it. We're already here.

"I love you," I say, meeting her eyes. "Have for a while now. I love you. All of you. The messy parts, the broken parts. I love all of it."

Her eyes fill with tears again, but different ones. "Cade—"

"You don't have to say it back. I'm telling you because you just found out your mother regrets having you, and I need you to know that I don't. I never will."

A tear spills over. "I love you too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She cups my face in both hands. "I love you. And Hunter. And AJ. And even Xavier with all his awkward trying." A watery laugh. "I love all of you so much it terrifies me."

"Good." I kiss her, soft and salt-tinged. "Be terrified with me."

She kisses me back, and it tastes like tears and chocolate and promises.

When we break apart, she rests her forehead against mine. "She's wrong, you know. My mother. About all of it."

"I know."

"I'm not going to end up alone."

"No." I tuck her hair behind her ear. "You're really not."

We sit there as the afternoon stretches on, watching the waves. She tells me about the letter—the specific words, the way they landed. I listen without interrupting.

By the time the others arrive—Xavier's car pulling into the parking lot—some color's returned to Layla's cheeks.

She's not okay, not by a long shot.

But she's better than she was.

And that's enough for now.