Chapter 18
The Coffee Should Have Given It Away
By the time we leave the rink, Calder is already carrying my coffee.
Not because I asked. Because somewhere over the last few weeks he apparently decided hot drinks are a responsibility he takes seriously.
I catch him switching the cup into his other hand when we reach the parking lot so he can open my car door.
The movement happens so naturally neither of us acknowledges it anymore.
"You know," I say while sliding into the seat, "you've started acting suspiciously domestic."
Calder pauses halfway through closing the door.
"That sounds like slander."
"You carried my coffee, opened the door, and stole my skate bag without speaking."
"Efficiency."
"That was basically husband behavior."
Calder stares at me for a second. Long enough that I almost wonder if I've pushed too far. Then he shuts the door and continues around the hood without responding. Which is somehow a much more suspicious reaction.
I laugh softly to myself. The sound reaches him through the open driver's side door. His head turns automatically. The movement is immediate. Instinctive. Like my laugh catches his attention before he's aware he's doing it. That affects me every single time.
When we stop outside my apartment building neither of us bothers pretending he's leaving.
The routine has become too established. Coffee.
Training. My apartment. The day keeps unfolding until one of us eventually forces it to stop.
I unlock the building door while telling Calder about one of my younger students dramatically fake-fainting during stretching because she'd apparently suffered a complete loss of emotional stability.
Calder follows beside me carrying both coffees and my skate bag.
"How did she recover?"
"Very bravely."
"Good."
"It took three jellybeans."
"Medical miracle."
I laugh. The sound echoes softly through the hallway.
We reach my apartment. I unlock the door one-handed while Calder bumps it shut behind us with his foot.
And then everything falls into place. Not consciously.
Just automatically. His shoes end up beside mine near the entrance.
His hoodie lands across the back of the couch.
My skate guards get tossed toward the kitchen counter. The coffee cups find their usual spot.
I stop halfway through setting my keys down.
Because suddenly I'm noticing all of it.
Not the individual things. The pattern. The fact that neither of us has to think anymore.
Calder doesn't hesitate when he walks into my apartment.
Doesn't ask where things go. Doesn't linger awkwardly near the door like a guest waiting for instructions.
He moves through the space with easy familiarity.
Like he already knows it. Like he belongs here.
The realization settles quietly somewhere beneath my ribs.
Because at some point his presence stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling borrowed.
I look toward the living room. At the hoodie draped over the couch.
At the coffee he set on the counter without asking where I wanted it.
At the skate bag he dropped beside the bench because that's where it always ends up.
And for a second the apartment looks different.
Not because anything has changed. Because suddenly I notice how much of Calder is already here.
And how impossible it is to remember when that happened.
I move toward the kitchen automatically.
Calder follows close behind. His hand brushes briefly against the small of my back while passing me one of the coffees, and the contact barely registers—not because it means nothing, but because it happens all the time now.
A hand at my back. A touch at my waist. Fingers brushing mine while passing something across a counter.
The individual moments stopped surprising me weeks ago.
he leans against the kitchen counter while I dig through the fridge looking for something remotely edible.
"You have the nutrition habits of a university student."
I pull out a container of leftover pasta and examine it suspiciously.
"You ate gas station beef jerky for breakfast yesterday."
"That was protein."
I snort. he watches me over the rim of his coffee with quiet amusement.
The apartment settles into comfortable silence around us.
Then awareness hits unexpectedly hard. The coffee.
The apartment. The easy conversation. The fact that Calder followed me home after training without either of us discussing it.
The realization lands heavily enough that I stop moving for a second.
Somewhere along the way this stopped feeling temporary.
Not in a dramatic way. Not because either of us said anything about it.
It just happened gradually, hidden inside routines that stopped feeling unusual.
Him showing up. Staying. Existing in my space like he belonged there.
And neither of us seems particularly interested in changing it.
An hour later he's barefoot in my kitchen making grilled cheese like he pays rent here while I lean against the counter watching him flip sandwiches one-handed, music playing quietly from my phone speaker near the sink.
"You're weirdly confident for somebody burning butter."
Calder glances down. The butter is, in fact, aggressively browning.
"That's flavor."
"That's smoke."
"Your negativity is restricting my artistic process."
I laugh. Calder's attention shifts toward me immediately, automatic, and at this point I almost expect it.
Warmth settles low in my chest while I reach past him for plates.
His hand slides briefly against my waist as I move around him, just enough pressure to guide me through the narrow space between him and the counter.
The movement feels so natural I barely think about it until afterward.
The sandwiches survive, barely, and a few minutes later we're sitting cross-legged on the couch eating off mismatched plates while he steals chips directly from mine approximately every thirty seconds.
"You have your own."
"Yours taste better."
"That's not scientifically possible."
Calder takes another chip anyway. I kick lightly at his leg. He catches my ankle automatically before I can pull away, the movement so fast it feels instinctive. Warm fingers wrap briefly around bare skin. For a second neither of us moves. Then he lets go.
Slowly.
The conversation continues. The music keeps playing.
The apartment remains quiet. Neither of us comments on what just happened.
I look down at my plate, at the chips, at absolutely anything except the place on my ankle where his hand had been.
The annoying part is that I know exactly why.
Because lately every small thing keeps feeling like evidence—not of something changing, but of something that already changed a long time ago.
And the more attention I pay to it, the harder it becomes to pretend I haven't noticed.
The music continues quietly in the background. Soft indie stuff Calder claims he hates despite somehow knowing every lyric.
Liar.
Shared exhaustion settles warmly through the apartment.
Comfortable instead of heavy. Calder stretches out across the couch afterward with one arm hooked behind his head, actually relaxed, and the sight affects me more than it should.
Calder only ever looks like this here. Loose around the edges.
Guard down in a way I almost never see anywhere else.
I sit sideways beside him, his hair falling messily across his forehead.
Without thinking, I reach over and push it back.
Calder stills immediately—not tense, just aware.
His eyes lift toward mine slowly while my fingers linger briefly in his hair before I pull back.
Calder catches my wrist gently before I get far.
He isn't stopping me, just holding on for half a second longer than necessary.
The look he gives me settles somewhere deep beneath my ribs: tired, quiet, open in a way he usually isn't.
Then he lets go. The silence afterward stretches comfortably between us, and that's the part bothering me most. Not the touching.
Not the awareness sitting quietly underneath it.
The ease. The way Calder exists naturally inside my apartment.
The way we move around each other without thinking anymore.
The way silence feels warm instead of empty.
Everything about this should feel too intimate. Instead it feels normal.
The realization follows me for several minutes afterward.
One second we're talking about Emma threatening to start hockey lessons, and the next, something feels different.
Not wrong. Just noticeable. Calder sits stretched out beside me while music hums softly through the speakers and the room glows gold in the low evening light.
He laughs at something I say, then his gaze drops briefly—just for a second—toward my mouth.
The movement is small enough that I almost convince myself I imagined it.
Almost.
Heat curls unexpectedly low in my stomach.
The conversation slows after that, neither of us seeming entirely responsible for it.
Calder leans forward to set his empty plate on the coffee table, and his forearm brushes my thigh on the way back.
The contact should be meaningless. A few hours ago it would have been.
Now neither of us moves. His arm remains lightly against my leg, warm, solid, present.