Battle Scars

Chapter 13: Just Hold On

Jay

Its Friday, and I'm up earlier than usual. I don't know why I even bother setting an alarm anymore; it's like my body has this internal clock set to some ungodly hour, and there's no snooze button. I go through the motions—shower, throw on a clean shirt—my thoughts still tangled from the night before.

When I step out of my room, the apartment is quiet. Nate's door is shut, and I know he probably is already at work. Leah's door is closed too, and I'm not sure if she's still asleep or lying awake, waiting for the world to settle around her before she starts her day. I make my way to the kitchen, grab the coffee pot, and start brewing.

This routine with Leah—morning coffee, mostly in silence—has become something I look forward to. It's weird, finding comfort in these quiet moments, but there's a kind of unspoken understanding between us. Neither of us feels the need to fill the silence with forced conversation, and it's a relief in a way I didn't know I needed.

I'm pouring myself a cup when her door creaks open. Leah steps out, looking like she's still shaking off the remnants of sleep. Her hair is a wild, wavy mess, and she's wearing an oversized sweatshirt that practically swallows her. For someone who's gone through what Nate hinted at, she looks almost peaceful in this moment. Almost.

"Morning," I say, keeping my voice low.

She nods, moving to the counter to grab a mug. "Morning," she replies, her voice still raspy from sleep.

We go through the familiar ritual of fixing our coffee, and I watch as she pours an obscene amount of creamer into her cup. It's a little thing, but it's one of those details that sticks in my head. Leah, who's blunt and tough and doesn't hesitate to call someone out, drinks her coffee with more creamer than caffeine. Small contradictions like that make me want to know more about her.

"Plans today?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

She shrugs, leaning against the counter. "I need to hit the store," she says, almost offhandedly. Then, like she's deciding whether to elaborate, she adds, "My therapist suggested I get a notebook. Said it might help to write things down."

That catches me off guard. It's not just that she has a therapist—hell, most of us could use one—but that she told me about it so bluntly. Leah isn't the type to volunteer personal information, not unless she has to.

I try not to let my surprise show. "Sounds like a good idea," I say, keeping my tone even.

She gives a half-shrug, like she's not convinced but isn't going to argue with a professional. "Maybe," she mutters, almost to herself.

I finish my coffee and set the mug down. "Need a ride?"

She looks at me, her eyes searching my face for a moment before she nods. "Yeah, that'd be good."

It's a small victory, but I don't let it show. Instead, I just nod and take another sip of coffee. "Cool. Just let me know when you're ready."

We fall into silence again, but it's not uncomfortable. It's like we've found this middle ground where neither of us has to pretend to be anything other than what we are in the moment. For me, that's a guy trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life. And for her... well, I'm still trying to piece that puzzle together.

After a few minutes, Leah finishes her coffee and heads back to her room to get ready. I lean back against the counter, staring at my half-empty cup and wondering when things got so complicated. It's not that I'm looking for something to fix or even trying to be a hero—I've got enough of my own shit to deal with without taking on someone else's—but there's this pull, this need to understand Leah, even if it's none of my business.