Chapter 157: AJ's POV

Chapter 157: AJ's POV
It's past midnight when I hear Cade's truck pull into the driveway.

I've been sitting in the living room for the past three hours, pretending to read the same page of my book over and over while actually just listening for the sound of his engine. Hunter crashed on the couch around eleven. Xavier's still in his study, probably working through his anxiety the only way he knows how.

But I couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking about that text Cade sent—Her mother sent a letter. 'I regret ever having you' bad.

I've known Layla since we were eight years old. Watched her navigate her mother's coldness, her cruelty disguised as discipline, the slow erosion of a child who just wanted to be loved.

But this feels different. Final.

The front door opens quietly. Cade comes in first, looking exhausted, his jeans soaked to the knees and crusted with salt. Then Layla, moving slowly, like she's not quite sure where she is.

Her eyes find me immediately.

I set down the book I wasn't reading. "Hey."

"Hey." Her voice is rough. Broken.

She crosses the room without hesitation and simply folds herself into my lap, tucking her head under my chin like she used to do when we were kids and the world got too big.

I wrap my arms around her automatically. She's cold—her jacket damp, hair tangled with salt and wind. She smells like ocean and tears.

"You okay?" I ask quietly, even though I already know the answer.

"No." At least she's honest. "But I'm better than I was."

Cade drops onto the couch beside us, running both hands through his hair. "She needed to scream at the ocean for a while."

"Did it help?"

"I think so." Layla's voice is muffled against my chest. "My throat hurts."

"Good scream or bad scream?"

"Both."

Hunter stirs on the other couch, blinking awake. Takes in the scene—Layla in my lap, Cade's salt-stained jeans, the exhaustion on both their faces.

"You guys okay?" he asks, sitting up.

"We're here," Cade says, which isn't really an answer but somehow says everything.

Footsteps on the stairs. Xavier appears, still dressed, clearly hasn't slept either. His eyes go straight to Layla, cataloging her condition with that analytical precision he can't turn off.

"Layla—"

"I'm okay," she says, but doesn't move from my lap. "Or I will be. Eventually."

Xavier crosses his arms, looking uncertain. Like he wants to do something but doesn't know what.

I catch his eye, shake my head slightly. Not now. Just be here.

He seems to understand. Sits in the armchair across from us, still wound tight but trying.

We sit in silence for a while. Not uncomfortable. Just... present.

Finally, Layla speaks. "She wrote me a letter."

"We heard," Hunter says gently. "Cade texted."

"Did he tell you what it said?"

"Some of it."

She's quiet for a moment. Then: "She said she regrets having me. That my dad would be ashamed of what I've become. That I'll end up alone because I'm too damaged."

Xavier's jaw clenches so hard I hear it from across the room.

"She's wrong," I say quietly, tightening my arms around her. "About all of it."

"I know." Layla's fingers curl into my shirt. "In my head, I know that. But it still—"

"Hurts," I finish. "Yeah. It's supposed to."

She pulls back enough to look at me. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face blotchy from crying. She's never looked more beautiful.

"How do you let go of someone who never held on?" she asks.

It's the question she used to ask me when we were kids. When her mother would forget her birthday, or miss her school plays, or look right through her like she wasn't there.

I give her the same answer I gave her then. "Slowly. And with people who won't let go of you."

Her eyes well up again. "AJ—"

"I'm not going anywhere, Layla. None of us are." I brush her hair back from her face. "Your mother's a fool who doesn't deserve the daughter she got. But that's her loss. Not yours."

"He's right," Hunter says quietly. "You're not the problem here. You never were."

Xavier leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I know I'm not good at this. At knowing what to say or how to help. But I'm here. We're all here. And we're not leaving."

Layla looks around at all of us—Hunter on the couch, Xavier in the chair, Cade beside me, me holding her like I've held her a hundred times before.

"I don't deserve you guys," she whispers.

"Wrong way around," Cade says. "We don't deserve you."

She laughs—small and broken but real. "That's not how it works."

"Sure it is." He reaches over, squeezes her ankle. "You're the best thing that happened to all of us. Even when you're a mess. Especially when you're a mess."

"I'm always a mess."

"Yeah, well. We like messes."

This time her laugh is stronger. She wipes her eyes, sits up slightly but doesn't leave my lap.

"I burned the letter," she says after a moment. "Tore it up and burned it in my fireplace."

"Good," Xavier says with feeling.

"I thought it would make me feel better. Like I was destroying her words or something." She shakes her head. "But they're still in my head."

"They'll fade," I tell her. "Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually they'll get quieter."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've been there." I think about my own mother, the caseworker's gentle voice telling eight-year-old me that my mom had signed away her rights. That she wasn't coming back. "Not the same situation. But the same feeling—like someone who was supposed to love you looked at you and decided you weren't worth it."

Layla turns to look at me fully. "I forgot. I'm sorry—"

"Don't." I shake my head. "I'm not telling you for sympathy. I'm telling you because I know what it's like. And I know that the words in your head right now feel permanent. But they're not. They're just noise. And eventually you learn to turn down the volume."

"How long did it take you?"

"Years," I admit. "But I didn't have what you have."

"What's that?"

"People who showed up. Who sat with me. Who didn't need me to be okay before they'd love me." I press a kiss to her forehead. "You have that, Layla. You have us."

She's quiet for a long moment, processing. Then she looks at each of them in turn—Cade with his salt-stained jeans and worried eyes, Hunter with his steady calm, Xavier trying so hard to be what she needs.

"Thank you," she says finally. "For not leaving. For not making me explain. For just... being here."

"Always," Hunter says simply.

"That's the deal," Cade adds. "You're stuck with us."

Xavier just nods, something fierce and protective in his expression that wasn't there before.

Layla settles back against my chest, and I can feel the moment some of the tension finally drains from her body. Not all of it—this isn't the kind of thing that resolves in one night.

But enough.

"I'm exhausted," she murmurs.

"Then sleep." I adjust my hold, making sure she's comfortable. "Right here if you want."

"I should go to my room—"

"Why?" Hunter asks. "We're all here. Stay."

She considers this. Then, to my surprise: "Okay."

Cade grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch, spreads it over both of us. Hunter shifts to make more room. Xavier disappears for a moment, comes back with pillows from the hall closet.

We arrange ourselves like we used to as kids during sleepovers—Layla still in my lap, Cade stretched out beside us, Hunter on the other couch, Xavier in the armchair but close enough to be part of it.

"This is ridiculous," Layla says, but there's warmth in her voice. "We're not twelve anymore."

"So?" Cade tosses a pillow at Xavier, who catches it without comment. "Sometimes you need to be twelve again."

She doesn't argue. Just closes her eyes, her breathing gradually evening out.

I hum quietly—that old lullaby I used to sing when we were kids and she couldn't sleep. The one her dad taught me because he knew she'd need it someday.

Her hand finds mine under the blanket, squeezes once.

Thank you, it says.

Always, I squeeze back.

One by one, the others drift off. Cade first, then Hunter. Xavier fights it for a while but eventually gives in.

But I stay awake, holding Layla, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Watching over her like I've done since we were eight years old.

She's not okay. Not yet.

But she will be.

Because this time, she's not alone.