12. CAL
CAL
Terms and Conditions Apply
T he one thing I couldn’t afford was getting sick—though isn’t that what we all say? Of course, my body disagreed, deciding that pneumonia would be a great life choice. And in those fevered, hallucinatory dreams, there was Jack. Always Jack. His voice, that deep rumble that could settle storms, kept pulling me back from the dark. A steady anchor when I’d been tumbling through nothing but shadows and delirium.
I’d been ready to take a scenic stroll straight to hell— who are we kidding, I’m practically a resident —but instead of being guided by demons, there he was. A Viking god masquerading as some reluctant angel. At least, that’s what my fever-drunk brain insisted.
When I finally woke, it felt like my body had shut down for a hundred years, though I doubted I’d been granted the royal glow-up of Sleeping Beauty. My mouth was Sahara-dry, my tongue a piece of sandpaper, and my eyelids… welded shut, crusty and stubborn from what felt like a year’s worth of sleep.
“Not a month, Pretty Boy. Just a couple of days,” a voice said. That voice. Jack’s voice. I knew it before I could even question it, followed by the faintest chuckle, warm and far too real.
My stomach flipped. Oh God. He was actually here . Not a dream, not some fevered hallucination. Him. Jack.
And then—because apparently, I narrated my life like an actual lunatic—I heard his amused drawl, “Not self-narration when you’re speaking in third person out loud. And not alone, weirdo.”
I groaned, weak and mortified, but before I could even move my hand to wipe at my eyes, I felt it. Warm fingers gently caught my wrist, stopping me. A soft, damp cotton pad pressed against my eyelid, and he began carefully wiping away the evidence of my unconscious demise.
“Let me finish,” he said, that same voice— calm, commanding, annoyingly soothing —making it clear I wasn’t allowed to argue.
And I didn’t. I stayed still, too dazed, too out of it, until… it slipped. A reflex I couldn’t control, I muttered, “Okay, Daddy.”
What. The. Fuck.
The silence that followed was broken by a low growl, deep enough that I wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or amusement. I cracked a weak grin despite the heat crawling up my face. Jack’s voice rumbled again, this time darker, laced with something dangerous .
“If we’re talking kinks, Pretty Boy, as an ex-military man, it’s Sir . ‘Daddy’ doesn’t quite have the same effect.”
A rush of heat shot through me— oh, my God, what was wrong with me? My fevered brain, the traitorous little gremlin that it was, decided this was a perfect time to wonder just how good it’d feel to scream Yes, Sir while—no. Nope. Absolutely not.
“Stop it,” I scolded myself weakly, letting out something between a laugh and a cough. “Well, at least you’ve got your debt-clearing technique down,” I added, trying to claw back some dignity. That had to be what this was. Him, playing nurse. Military honor or guilt. Right? Because what else would it be?
But he didn’t answer right away, and that’s when I made the mistake of finally cracking my eyes open. Jack’s face hovered above me, close enough that I could see the faint furrow in his brow. Those ice-blue eyes locked on mine, steady and unreadable, and for a second—just a second—it looked like he cared . Like it wasn’t about debts or duty at all.
My throat tightened, panic creeping into my chest. “What?” I croaked, pretending not to see the way his gaze softened.
Somewhere in the haze of fever and exhaustion, I clung to the thought that Jack was only here because he felt obligated. He’s not going to be yours, Cal. Snap out of it.
But the way his eyes hadn’t left me since I’d opened mine made it hard to hold onto that lie. There was something unnerving about the way he watched me—calm, steady, like he wasn’t seeing the sarcastic front I put up but something else , something deeper. And that? That scared the hell out of me.
I looked away first, unable to keep my gaze locked on his for too long, not when my heartbeat decided to race at every little thing he did. Jack standing there, filling the room with his Viking-god presence, felt too big, too close, too much.
“God,” he muttered, his tone soft and a little rough around the edges, like he wasn’t used to speaking that way. “You really think I’m some kind of asshole who’d call taking care of you a form of repayment?”
I froze. My eyes darted back to his, because that wasn’t what I expected him to say. His stare was sharp but not cruel, and this time, there wasn’t a smirk to hide behind, no teasing lilt to deflect.
“Pretty Boy, you got sick because you pulled my bar out of foreclosure, all while pretending you were fine. So, yeah, I’d rather you not die of pneumonia just to prove a point.”
I scoffed— tried to scoff—but the sound came out weaker than I wanted.
“Right. Well, you can stop that now. I’m fine, Jack. You can go back to the bar.”
It was a dismissal, or at least I meant it to be, but my voice cracked slightly on the last word. His brow furrowed, like he caught it, and that only made me panic more. I couldn’t look at him. Not when those ice-blue eyes fixed on me like that, unyielding, too intense, too… something I wasn’t ready to name.
“Nope,” he said, simple and quiet, as if there was nothing else to say. “Not happening, Pretty Boy.”
There it was again— Pretty Boy . But it wasn’t laced with his usual sarcasm. It sounded softer now, stripped bare. It made something stir in me, something dangerous.
I needed to get up, to do anything but sit here under the weight of him, but the second I swung my legs over the bed, the room tilted. My body betrayed me, dizziness hitting like a truck.
“Whoa there.”
Strong hands steadied me by the hips, fingers curling against my sides like it was the most natural thing in the world. Heat flared where he touched me, spreading up my spine like a flame catching. I went still, body rigid, as if that could stop whatever the hell this was.
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
“Alright—Mr. Handsome, Mr. Straight-Man,” I blurted, stepping back out of his hold, though I only managed to corner myself against my nightstand like a complete idiot.
“You need to get out. I’m on a detox. A lifelong detox from men, in fact. And I’m serious, Jack. Thank you for not letting me die, but go back to the bar and keep hating me or glaring at me from across the room or whatever it is you normally do. That’s what I need. I need my mind to stop reading into every damn thing.”
The words tumbled out like a frantic spill, sharp edges trying to cover up the desperate pounding of my heart. I expected him to get mad, to storm out, to snap back at me like any normal person would when someone lost their shit on them.
But Jack? Jack laughed.
It was low, rough around the edges, and completely unguarded, a real laugh that sent shivers down my spine and made something twist painfully in my chest. I stared, absolutely frozen as his shoulders shook, his head tipping back like this was the funniest damn thing he’d heard in ages.
“Are you—are you laughing at me?” I sputtered, completely thrown off balance.
Jack’s laughter faded into a smirk, one that sent every single thought in my head scattering. Then, as if he wasn’t already wreaking enough havoc, he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping low, dark, and smooth.
“Straight? Oh, no, Pretty Boy,” he said, his smile widening, “I haven’t ever been straight.”
The words hung between us, thick in the air, knocking the breath right out of me.
I stared at him, heartbeat hammering against my ribs, every bit of resolve I’d managed to scrape together crumbling like dust.
Oh, shit.
Whether it was the fever talking or my own stupid mind, but I was sent right down memory lane.
The feelings broke free, one by one, slipping through the cracks in the box I’d shoved them into, sharper now than the day I’d locked them away. Eric’s apartment swam back into focus: the smell of takeout in my hands, the sound of the door clicking shut behind me, the murmur of laughter from the bedroom—a laugh I’d thought was mine to hear.
And then, there they were.
Eric, my Eric, moving against someone else. The soft glow of the bedside lamp caught the angles of his body, the curve of his hand trailing across someone’s skin, and everything froze—except the pounding of my heart. The guy beneath him was young, smooth, with that kind of toned, effortless body that could still eat an entire pizza and wake up with abs. His face had lit up like he couldn’t believe his luck, like he’d won the prize I’d spent the past year thinking was mine.
They hadn’t even noticed me at first. I stood there, rooted to the floor, as if sheer stillness could erase the moment. It was the twink who saw me first, his wide-eyed panic shattering the illusion. He nudged Eric, who turned lazily, his gaze dropping to mine—brief, like he was surprised I was even there—before it slid off me entirely, dismissive, tired.
“Preston, maybe you should go. I need to sort this out.”
Sort this out. That’s what I’d become—a problem to sort out. Reduced to this .
The kid who could have only been in his first year of college—Preston, Preston —slid out of the bed with a guilty glance I couldn’t stomach. Eric didn’t move, didn’t bother with modesty or excuses, because why would he? He looked perfect—shirtless, sculpted, beautiful—and I hated him for it. I hated him for standing there so calm, as if I hadn’t spent the past year helping him study through the night, carrying his weight when he thought he wasn’t good enough. I’d been everything he needed, or so I thought, and now I wasn’t enough.
I dropped the takeout. The sound was louder than it should’ve been, cartons splitting open against the floor, sweet and sour sauce spreading like a slow stain across the tile. Eric didn’t even flinch.
“What was it, Eric?” My voice was steady, but I could feel the splinters in my chest, the cracks webbing wider with every breath. “What did he have that I didn’t?”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if this whole conversation was an inconvenience.
“He’s easy, Cal. He doesn’t ask for anything. He doesn’t…” Eric’s eyes flicked to mine, sharp and cold. “He isn’t so much. You’re too much. You drain me.”
Too much. There it was. The fatal strike. The words I’d carry long after that door slammed behind me.
I’d trained myself not to react to rejection, to pretend the cuts didn’t sting, but my fingers curled into fists as I swallowed down the chaos. I wouldn’t let him see the blood.
“Too much,” I repeated quietly, more to myself than him. My voice was hollow, empty, stripped of the fire that had always burned so easily in me. Then I turned, leaving the mess of spilled food on his floor, because the truth was, it was the least he deserved.
That memory pressed against me now, jagged and raw, like glass beneath the skin, as I looked at Jack.
Jack, who was too much in every way that mattered: too tall, too broad, too there . A man who shouldn’t look so steady, so unshakable, but somehow did. I’d been here before, standing at the edge, feeling myself tip forward toward the promise of something I couldn’t have.
Because I couldn’t do it again. Couldn’t let someone else strip me bare only to decide I was too much, too heavy to hold.
“Leave, Jack.”
The words came out like a blade, sharp and final, and I hated how my voice shook at the end.
Jack didn’t move. His eyes stayed on me, steady and unreadable, like he could see straight through me, straight to the pieces of me I didn’t want him to touch.
“Cal—”
“No.” I cut him off, my voice harder this time, breaking like a wave against a wall that refused to budge. “Go.”
I caught the flicker in his eyes first—the confusion that narrowed them, the surprise that parted his lips, and, beneath it all, a hint of anger. Those ice-blue irises shimmered with something too alive, too thrilling, something that made my pulse skip. It hinted at a world that might’ve existed if I weren’t this stitched-together patchwork of bad calls and broken ties. But I was, so I stood firm, not letting that spark lure me in.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said, voice gentle but certain, like he’d rehearsed this a dozen times, smoothing out the creases of every possible retort. “We both want the same thing.”
My heart lurched at that—just a tiny stutter. For a split second, I let myself believe he meant everything : the fall, the safety net, the promise that love wouldn’t fold under pressure. But reality slapped me hard, reminding me I’d learned long ago not to fall for fairy tales.
“And what’s that?” I asked, forcing my tone to stay hollow, like the cavern inside my chest.
“To not be in a relationship.”
Just like that, the tiny ember of hope snuffed out. Right. Just an easy fix, another shortcut through the minefield—my life’s recurring theme.
“And what if we make a deal?” he pressed on, not deterred by the silence I threw up between us. “I don’t want relationship drama, and neither do you. So we fake it—help each other out. You keep the creeps off me, I keep them off you. And you’d be my fake boyfriend at my brother’s engagement party. And the wedding,” he added, as if that were a minor detail.
I blinked, throat tight, heart quivering like a hummingbird trapped under glass. A fake relationship with Jack? Playing devoted partner to a man who could’ve stepped off a magazine cover? Trouble, no doubt, but something about his words latched onto my ribs and wouldn’t let go. It was ridiculous, brazen, and yet… achingly tempting.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Jack…” I managed, voice catching on the last word, my resolve teetering even as I tried to convince myself I didn’t need to hear his answer.
His expression shifted, softening like the first thaw of winter, a flicker of something raw and unguarded slipping into those eyes. Vulnerability—unexpected and so real .
“Look,” he said, his voice quieter now, the edges worn down. “I know there’s more in this for me, and you’ve already done too much. But if I could just… show my parents, my siblings, that I’m okay here in Canada. And show my ex he’s a thing of the past, so his cheating ass doesn’t keep trying to weasel his way back.”
The words hit harder than I wanted to admit, slicing through me like they’d been carved from my own thoughts. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, those ugly whispers echoing in the dark—imagining the perfect moment to parade my "thriving, totally fine" life in front of Eric. The heartbreak club. No membership card needed, just the familiar ache of something broken still beating in your chest. And wasn’t that what we all wanted, deep down? To say I’m okay now, even if it wasn’t entirely true. To look the past in the face and come out standing taller.
I sighed, long and heavy, before tilting my head toward him.
“Fine. Yes, I’ll play your pretend boyfriend.”
His face lit up, his entire posture shifting like he’d won something far bigger than he’d let on. The brightness in his gaze made it hard to look too long. So, before he could run away with whatever half-baked victory he thought this was, I held up a finger.
“But,” I added sharply, watching the gleam in his eyes falter just a touch. “When my head’s clear, I’m coming to you with terms and conditions. You agree to them first, and only then are we fake boyfriends. Got it?”
He blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching as if to smirk, though he seemed smart enough to hold it back. “Got it.”
I leaned back against the bed, my body still weak, heart still pounding like it wasn’t entirely sold on the plan. Because there was no denying it—this was the dumbest decision I’d ever made. And I’d made some spectacularly bad ones.
But here was the thing: for once, I’d know the ending before the story started. I’d have the script memorized, the roles defined. Jack would leave, because that’s what people did. I wouldn’t pretend otherwise. And when he walked away, this time, it wouldn’t take me with him.
At least, that was the plan. Right?