Chapter Four #2
I watch him for another beat, trying to read the silence. It’s not anger anymore. It’s something else. Something closer to fear. Or maybe guilt.
“You want to act like this is nothing?” I ask, softer now. “Fine. But don’t insult me by pretending you didn’t feel it too.”
That lands. I see it in the pause, in the way his hand stills mid-wipe.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
“I don’t want a maybe, Wes.”
“I’m not a sure thing,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I got that.”
The silence after that is heavy.
Suffocating.
I step back, this time for real. My heart’s still pounding, but the ache in my chest is louder now than the heat in my blood.
I don’t want to go.
But I’m not going to stay and let him pretend I imagined all of it.
So I turn toward the door, footsteps clipped, every inch of me vibrating with the effort not to turn around.
I reach for the handle.
Then pause.
Just one second. One last look over my shoulder.
He’s still there. Rag in hand. Staring like he’s torn between calling me back and disappearing completely.
“You kissed me like you wanted more,” I say, voice low.
I hold his gaze, steady this time. No smirk. No teasing.
Just the truth.
“And if that’s true, then you should probably figure out what the hell you’re so afraid of.”
Then I push the door open.
And leave.
I don’t look back.
Not even once.
I don’t trust myself to.
Because if I see even a flicker of hesitation on his face—if I catch even the faintest crack in that carefully guarded calm—I’ll turn around.
I’ll press him again. Push for more.
And I can’t keep doing that.
So I force one foot in front of the other, shove my hands into my jacket pockets, and focus on the spring wind whipping through the street. It’s colder than I expected. Biting.
Or maybe that’s just the aftermath.
I kissed him like I meant it.
He kissed me like he did too.
And still—I walked out alone.
I make it halfway down the block before I stop walking.
Each step away from him feels heavier than it should.
Like I’m not walking off a moment—I’m walking off a cliff.
And I don’t even know what’s at the bottom
Not because I’ve changed my mind, but because I need to breathe.
The spring air’s cool against my skin, wind brushing the back of my neck like it’s trying to pull me back. But I don’t turn around. I just stand there, fists shoved into my pockets, chest still heaving like I ran out of a burning building instead of a coffee shop.
What the hell is it about him?
Wes Calder, with his quiet mouth and loud silences.
Who kisses like he’s starved, then vanishes like he regrets it.
Who watches me like he wants to memorize every inch, but won’t let himself touch.
Who makes me feel more in a moment than most people manage in weeks—and still makes me question if it was ever real.
Seen and unseen. Wanted and unwanted. Pulled close and yet pushed away.
It’s not new. But damn, it’s hitting different this time.
I shake my head and keep walking, cutting through the alley behind the Velveteen Crumb bakery just to move.
The pavement’s still wet from yesterday’s rain, and the scent of yeast and sugar and cinnamon clings to the air.
Normally I’d breathe it in. Maybe grab a scone.
Maybe flirt with the guy who always slips me an extra napkin and a smile.
But I’m not in the mood for crumbs right now.
I wanted more.
And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.
The truth is, I’ve been here before. Not in this alley. Not with Wes. But in this… feeling. Wanting someone who only lets me see the pieces they think I can handle.
First year on the job, I fell for a guy on my fire crew.
We were both rookies—new to the station, new to the adrenaline, new to whatever the hell was building between us.
Lean, fast, smart, and way too charming for his own good.
We’d sneak glances across training drills, bump shoulders during gear checks.
One night, after a shift that nearly wrecked both of us, we ended up back at my place.
It was quiet. Real. His mouth on mine, slow and searching, like we were both afraid of what it might mean.
He stayed the night. Held me so tight I forgot I wasn’t supposed to hope.
And in the morning?
He was already gone.
Two weeks later, he showed up at the station with his new girlfriend. Pretended like we’d never shared anything. Like I hadn’t memorized the feel of his hands or the way his voice cracked when he whispered my name in the dark.
It wasn’t just rejection. It was like I didn’t even exist to him after.
And yeah—it fucked me up.
Wes isn’t that guy.
But the silence? The way he pulls back like I’m dangerous just for making him feel something?
It’s too damn familiar.
I stop at the edge of the park, watching a few kids race each other across the grass, their laughter echoing like nothing hurts. One of them wipes out, hits the ground hard. The others stop. Help him up. No teasing, no bravado, just a hand outstretched and a quick, easy grin that says, “I got you.”
I wonder what it’s like to believe someone will always offer you that hand.
To not have to brace for the fall.
I’m not asking Wes to catch me.
But it’d be nice if he stopped pretending he didn’t already reach.
I drag in a breath and sink onto a bench, palms flat on my thighs, letting the cool air bleed some of the heat from my skin.
I don’t want to be the guy who keeps hoping. Who keeps showing up. Who keeps waiting for someone else to decide they’re ready.
But the worst part?
I think I already am.
Because even when Wes shuts down, even when he throws up walls, he still makes me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Like maybe I’m not too much.
Like maybe I’m worth the risk.
I stare at the sidewalk, jaw clenched.
“I’m not walking away,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. “Not yet.”
I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
But I know I’m not done waiting.
Because part of me is still hoping he’ll come after me. That he’ll shove through whatever fear he’s hiding behind and admit this thing between us isn’t just in my head.
But the street stays quiet.
And maybe I deserve that. Maybe I’ve been too pushy, too fast. Maybe he needs room to figure out what he wants, and I’m over here throwing sparks like we’re both already on fire.
Still…
It doesn’t feel like a mistake.
Not to me.
It feels like the start of something we’re both too scared to name.
I don’t sleep.
I try, hell, I try—but every time I close my eyes, it’s like I’m back there again. His mouth on mine. The heat of his body against the counter. The sound he made when he lost control. That low, barely-there groan that cracked right through his wall and gave me a glimpse of something real.
And then he pulled back.
Left me standing there like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.
I flip over again, dragging the blanket with me, only to kick it off five seconds later.
The sheets are too warm, my skin’s still buzzing, and my brain refuses to shut up.
I blink at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across the paint, then push upright with a frustrated breath and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
The floor’s cool beneath my feet as I pad toward the window. I lean a shoulder into the frame, arms crossed, and stare across the street at the darkened windows of The Brew House.
The shop is quiet now. Closed up. Lights off. No sign of movement.
But I can still feel him.
I rest my forehead against the glass, eyes locked on the faint outline of the building. It’s like I’m waiting for something. A flicker of light. A silhouette. Proof that he’s just as restless as I am.
Because how the hell could he not be?
That wasn’t nothing.
Not even close.
He’s the one who kissed me. Grabbed me like he couldn’t help it, like he needed it. And yeah… I kissed him back. I kissed him like I wanted it too—because I did. He acted like he’d been holding his breath for years. Like he was starved and I was the only damn thing that could satisfy him.
But then he shut it down again. Pulled away like I was fire and he was tired of getting burned.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t even surprised.
It’s like some part of me expected it. Like the second his hands gripped my shirt, the second our mouths met—I was already bracing for the fallout. For him to pull back.
Because no one ever stays. Not once it gets real.
Not once I do.
And I let him, I didn’t fight it. I want him to come to me.
Because somewhere in the back of my head, I knew this wouldn’t be easy. Knew Wes would need time. Space. An emotional crowbar to pry himself open.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.
I press my palm to the window, chasing the chill, needing something to ground me. It doesn’t help.
This thing between us—whatever the hell it is—it’s not over. It can’t be.
I drop my hand and exhale, the sound fogging the glass in a soft puff. Across the street, the coffee shop remains still. Quiet. Like it’s pretending none of it happened.
And maybe that’s the part that stings the most.
Not that he’s scared. But that he acts like none of it mattered.
Like I didn’t just hand him something real and ask him—without words—to hold it for a second.
I know what it feels like when someone drops it.
I’ve lived through it.
And now I’m bracing for it all over again, even though part of me still hopes I won’t have to.
Because Wes might be all walls and silence, but he’s not cold. Not really.
He’s heat wrapped in caution.
Softness hiding in steel.
And when he lets that softness show, even for a second…
It ruins me.
Just like he is.
I should walk away. That’s what anyone with half a brain would do.
Cut my losses, stop giving my heart to men who only ever offer silence in return.
But then I remember the way his voice cracked when he said my name.
The way his breath caught against my mouth like he’d forgotten how to let go.
And I know I’m already too far gone.
One kiss. One pull. That’s all it took.
And now I want more.
I shake my head and lean back against the wall.
He makes me feel seen and unseen at the same damn time. Like I’m under a spotlight and behind a curtain all at once. He wants me—but he’s terrified of what wanting me might mean.
And I get it. God, do I get it.
I’ve been there.
Too many times.
Times when a single look meant everything… right before it was ripped away. Times when a guy touched me like I was sacred, only to pretend he didn’t know me the next morning.
Wes isn’t the first to pull back.
But he’s the first one I don’t want to let go.
I push off the wall and pace the room once, twice, trying to settle the ache building in my chest. It’s not just frustration. It’s something deeper. Something that makes me feel raw and restless and stupidly hopeful—which might be the most dangerous part.
I glance at the window again.
Still no light.
Still no movement.
Still… I can’t get him out of my head.
I whisper into the quiet, like maybe he’ll hear it anyway. Like maybe it’ll find its way across the street and straight through that thick skull of his.
“I’m not walking away.”
My voice barely carries, but it still feels like a promise.
Maybe that’s stupid.
Maybe he’s not listening. Maybe he never will.
But love’s not always loud. Sometimes it starts in the quiet.
In the waiting.
In the not walking away, even when it hurts.
And maybe I’m setting myself up to fall.
But maybe he’s worth the landing.
I swallow down the rest of the ache, and add, “Not yet.”
Because I’m not ready to give up.
Not on this.
Not on him.
Not on the way he made me feel, even if he’s not ready to admit he felt it too.