Chapter Nine #2
“I don’t know when you leave,” he says, looking at me like he hates the answer because it’s too heavy to carry.
“Every time your phone rings, I wonder if it’s the call that takes you back to the city.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to get used to having you in my bed or if I should just start bracing for the impact of you hitting the exit.
I’m tired of the bracing, Jules. My ribs are sore from it. ”
“I haven’t looked at a map once since I got here, Wes. I haven’t updated my resume. I’m not looking for a way out. I’m looking for a way in, but you keep changing the locks.”
His eyes harden, the blue going dark like a winter sea. “I’m being realistic,” he snaps, but even to my ears, the word sounds hollow.
“You say that, then you freeze me out for half a day,” I shoot back, stepping closer until the heat of the grill is replaced by the heat of him.
“You don’t get to have a civil conversation with me in your office this morning and then show up here acting like we’re strangers.
Or worse, acting like I’m some project you’re just waiting to see fail. ”
“I wasn’t acting like we’re strangers,” he grits out.
“You also don’t get to show up here acting like I’m your property the second another human being talks to me. That’s not how this works.”
“I wasn’t being territorial,” he says, though his white-knuckled grip on his soda can says otherwise.
“You were! You’ve been hovering on the edge of the field for an hour like you’re waiting for a reason to leave, and then you marched across a field because someone put a hand on my arm. It means you care, Wes. And for some reason, that scares the hell out of you.”
“You were pushing me away before you even got here today,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to disappear when you’re scared and then show up swinging at the first person who talks to me.”
His pulse jumps at the base of his throat because he knows I'm right. He’s using distance as a shield.
“I don’t swing,” He huffs, though the protest is weak.
“You do,” I say, stepping so close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “You just pretend you don’t. You use your silence like a blunt object to keep people away, and then you act surprised when I’m still standing here, waiting for the smoke to clear.”
For a second, the rest of the field fades into a blur. The screams of the kids, the smell of the charcoal—it all disappears. The space between us feels like a live wire.
“I can’t do this halfway, Jules. I don’t know how. I never learned the trick of it.”
“I’m not offering halfway. I never was.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one who’s terrified of what happens if this works?” he asks, his voice cracking just enough for me to hear.
“You think I’m not scared?” I let out a short, humorless laugh that sounds like a sob. “I do care, Wes,” he says, and the words come out raw and bleeding.
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one who’s terrified of what happens if this works?” I ask, my voice cracking just enough for him to hear.
“You’re not.”
“Then stop pushing me away,” I say, stepping closer. “You let me in, you kiss me like you’re starving, and then the next morning you act like you don’t care if I exist. That isn’t steady, Wes. That’s a nightmare.”
I hold his gaze. “I know.”
That’s the problem. We’re two men who have spent our lives learning how to survive alone, and now we’re trying to figure out how to be together. It’s a mess of pride and old scars, and right now, the weight of it is too much.
“I need air,” he says, even though we’re standing in the middle of a massive park. He backs away, one step at a time, until the distance feels like a door slamming in my face.
I watch him walk away.
Wes doesn’t look back, not even once. His back is a rigid, unforgiving line of charcoal fabric against the festive blur of the park.
Every step he takes across that grass feels like a physical pull on my chest, a tether stretching until it’s thin enough to snap.
I want to shout after him. I want to run through the crowd of strollers and cornhole players and grab him by the shoulder, but my feet are leaden, anchored to the heat of the grill.
The sound of the town around me—the laughter, the screech of kids, the upbeat music—suddenly feels like static.
I’ve spent my life moving from one fire to the next, but this is the first time I’ve stood still and watched the only thing that matters walk right out of the light.
My chest aches with a jagged, hollow kind of anger, but beneath it is a fear so sharp it makes my hands shake as I reach for the grease-stained rag on the table.
He thinks I’m leaving. He’s already mourned me before I’ve even packed a bag.
“Hey, Jules? You gonna flip those or let 'em turn to charcoal?”
I blink, the world snapping back into focus. Miller is standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me with an expression that’s a little too knowing. I realize I’ve been staring at the spot where Wes vanished for a full minute while the meat on the grill begins to smoke.
“I got it,” I mutter, forcing my hands to move. I flip the burgers, the sizzle loud in the sudden silence of my own head. I go through the motions—serving three plates, nodding at a joke I didn't hear—but my skin feels too tight.
I can't stay here. I should be leading my team through the holiday shift, but I’m no good to anyone when my head is three blocks away in a quiet apartment over a coffee shop.
“Holland,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag and tossing it onto the table. “I need to step away. Can you take over the station?”
Holland Fannar, our 8th grade science teacher, raises an eyebrow, his gaze drifting toward the path Wes took before landing back on me. “Go. We got it from here.”
I don’t wait for a second invitation. I head for the tree line, away from the smell of onions and the forced cheer of the department picnic.
I walk until the noise of the crowd is a dull hum, then I pull my phone out.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I shouldn’t be the one to reach out, but the look on his face—that raw, shattered look before he turned away—is burned into my retinas.
Me: You good?
I keep walking, watching the cursor blink. I don't wait for him to answer before I send the next one. I need him to know where I stand, even if he’s currently hiding behind his own walls.
Me: I meant what I said at the grill.
Me: I’m staying put, Wes. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not backing off.
I leave the park before the fireworks even start. I walk through the quiet streets, my boots thudding a heavy, lonely rhythm against the pavement. The town is bright and annoyingly picturesque tonight, but all I see is the look of raw hurt in Wes’s eyes.
It isn't much, but it’s enough of a crack in the door. I turn toward the Brew House, my heart racing for a different reason now. I take the stairs two at a time and knock, and when Wes pulls the door open, I see him silhouetted against the kitchen window.
“You didn’t answer,” I say, my voice rough from being out of breath.
“I did.” he says looking confused.
I glance at my phone and see his ‘K’, in my rush, I didn’t feel the phone buzz.
We stand there while the first fireworks finally crack in the distance, painting the room in strobes of red and white.
“I didn’t mean okay like I was fine,” he exhales, his shoulders finally dropping an inch.
“I know. I’m not angry. I wasn’t angry, it was just a cover for fear.
” I take a step toward him, the scent of coffee and woodsmoke filling the space between us.
“And Sarah? She’s the sister of an academy friend.
She was asking about a transfer for her brother, Wes. Not me. That’s all the paperwork was.”
He goes very still. “You could have said that at the park.”
“I could have. But you were too busy building a case against me to listen to the evidence.”
“I don’t know how to not assume you’re temporary,” he whispers. “My brain is wired to look for the exit signs in every room I enter.”
“I don’t know how to prove I’m not,” I admit.
We’re close now, the heat of him radiating across the tile. “You didn’t stay for the fireworks,” he notes.
“I didn’t feel like watching explosions. I’ve had enough of those today.”
“I don’t like feeling like I’m waiting for you to decide our fate,” he says.
“I’m not deciding whether I want you, Wes. I decided that a long time ago.”
“Then what are you deciding?”
“How much of me you get,” I say, the honesty feeling like a weight being lifted. “That’s the part that scares me. The fact that I want you to have all of it. Every piece I’ve got left.”
He goes very still. “You’re sure?”
I step closer until our chests brush. “You’ve had more than I meant to give anyone since the day I met you, Wes. I’m not holding anything back.”
I close the space completely, my hands sliding to his waist. “I’m not planning an exit. I chose here. I chose this town. I chose this station. I chose… you.”
I feel the shift in him—the moment the fight leaves his body. His hands finally land on me, holding me like he’s making sure I’m real.
“You said you were terrified,” I murmur.
“I am.”
“Of me?”
“Of how much I want you. Of how much I need you to stay.”
I lean in, my mouth brushing his. The kiss that follows isn’t angry; it’s hungry and desperate. He pulls me closer, his fingers curling into my shirt.
“You don’t get to halfway this,” I murmur.
“I’m not,” he says.
He backs me into the counter, his movements deliberate. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
I shake my head, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t. Don’t you dare stop.”
He carries me to the bedroom, the journey feeling like it takes an eternity and a second all at once. There’s no rush this time—just intention. He lowers me onto the mattress, the darkness of the room swallowing us whole.
“You’re staying,” he murmurs, his weight pressing me into the blankets.
“I am. I’m staying.”
His hands slide up my sides, warm and steady.
“Don’t freeze me out anymore.” I say.
“I won’t,” he tells me.
I drag him down until there’s no air left between us. “I’ve been waiting for you to realize you’re already mine.”
He kisses me deeper, tasting the truth of it.
My hands move to the hem of his shirt, my fingers steady as I pull the fabric over his head.
There’s no fumbling this time. He watches me, letting me take my time.
I hold him back at arm's length just enough to look at him, to see the man I’ve been fighting for.
“You’re not an accident, Wes Calder,” I say.
“Then what am I?”
“You’re the one I’m scared of losing. You’re the reason I’m still here.”
Whatever control he was holding onto finally snaps. His mouth is on my throat, his hands moving lower. He’s taking what he wants, and what he wants is all of me. My hips lift to meet him, a reflex as old as time, and he groans against my skin—a sound of pure victory.
“You want control?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
“Yes. I need it.”
“Then take it. Show me what you want.”
I shove him onto his back, climbing over him until my knees pin his thighs. I want him to see me. I want him to know exactly who is staying.
“You’re not running away this time,” I say, my voice steady despite the chaos in my blood.
“You like ordering me around, don’t you?” Wes asks, reaching up to lace his fingers behind my neck and pulling me down until our noses touch.
“I just like you,” I shoot back, leaning down until our noses touch.
He laughs under his breath, but it dies the second I move against him, slow and deliberate. His throat flexes, his eyes closing as he absorbs the sensation. Then he opens them again and watches me like I’m the only thing in the world worth seeing.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “There you are. Finally.”
I dip my head and bite his lower lip, a claim as much as a kiss. He groans, a deep, resonant sound, and then the switch flips. His wrists twist once, sharp and fast, breaking my hold. His hands grab my waist, and in one smooth, powerful move, he rolls us.
Now I’m the one pinned beneath him, the mattress soft at my back and his weight a solid, grounding presence above me.
“You don’t get to pretend you’re the only one who can take control, Jules,” he says, his breath hot and ragged at my ear.
“Then prove me wrong. Show me.”
He does.
His mouth is everywhere—kisses that turn into bites, hands that know exactly how to hold me down.
He drags my shirt off, discarding it without a second thought.
The moment skin hits skin, it’s like my body finally admits how long it’s been waiting for this specific heat.
His palm slides over my chest, his touch confident and possessive.
My breath breaks, my back arching off the bed.
“You don’t get to call me temporary ever again,” I mutter against his skin.
“I won’t,” he promises.
“And you don’t get to run.” I grab his jaw and force him to look at me. “I’m not leaving, Wes. I’m home.”