Chapter 8
Caleb
The stairs creak under my weight, a soft complaint that feels too loud in the narrow house.
I keep my pace slow, one hand hovering near the small of her back, not quite touching, aware of every inch of space between us.
Her fingers graze the railing, white at the knuckles, the wood worn smooth from years of use.
I feel her hesitate before the landing, a fractional pause that tells me more than words ever could.
At the top, she turns down the short hallway and pushes open a door that sticks a little before giving way. Warm light spills out first, buttery and low, not the harsh glare of overhead fixtures. I step inside after her and let my gaze take its time.
The room is spare, almost bare, but it is unmistakably hers.
A simple bed with a faded quilt pulled tight across it, corners tucked with care.
No frills, no lace, just clean lines and something sturdy beneath.
A single nightstand holds a small lamp with a chipped ceramic base, a paperback with its spine broken, and a glass of water that has been there long enough to bead at the rim.
Against one wall, a narrow dresser, its surface mostly clear except for a few small objects that feel deliberate.
A pressed flower in a frame, its petals turned the color of old paper.
A ceramic mug with a hairline crack that tells me she keeps things that matter, even when they are imperfect.
A potted plant perched on the windowsill, leaves glossy and reaching for whatever light they can find.
There is no clutter, no softness meant to impress, just traces of a woman who values function and quiet beauty.
I notice the photograph taped to the mirror, her younger self, her father beside her, both of them laughing into a wind I can almost hear.
I notice the knitted throw draped over a chair in the corner, not for decoration, but for warmth.
Maggie stops a few feet inside and does not move.
Her shoulders lift, then fall. Her breathing is too quick, too shallow.
Her thumb rubs back and forth along the seam of her sleeve, a small, restless motion.
She does not look at me, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor, as if bracing herself for something she is not ready to face.
I cross the room. The rug is soft beneath my feet, swallowing what little sound I make, and I halt a few inches apart from her.
I stay where I am, close enough that I can feel the faint heat of her through the air between us. The room is quiet in that intimate, contained way that makes everything feel sharper, more present.
I shift my weight, angling my body so my shoulder brushes hers, then lift my hands slowly, deliberately.
My palms settle over the smooth slope of her shoulders, fingers spanning across the line of tension I can already sense beneath the fabric of her shirt.
I let my thumbs begin to work in small, unhurried circles at the base of her neck, kneading into the tight muscle there, then easing down along her shoulders before tracing the path back up again.
Her breath pulls in, a quick, fragile sound that lands somewhere low in my chest. Under my hands her body flinches, just barely, then yields by degrees, the rigidity giving way in increments so subtle I would have missed them if I were not touching her.
“You’re so tense.” My voice comes out low, close to her ear, steady rather than scolding.
Her fingers curl against my shirt, nails pressing into the cotton, and I feel the faint tremor in them as I find another knot and coax it to soften beneath my thumbs. Her shoulders sink a fraction, the smallest of movements, but I feel it clearly through my hands.
For a few moments, the only sounds in the room are the soft rasp of our breathing and the faint creak of the old house settling around us.
"I'm sorry." The words are so quiet I almost think I imagined them. But I spoke them, spoke the thought that has been beating with my heart ever since she came back into my life. I swallow hard.
My hands slow against her shoulders. Not enough to stop, but enough that she notices. Beneath my palms, I feel her tense as though she's waiting for something.
"For what?" she asks, leaning her head close to mine until our foreheads are touching. Her gazes searches mine.
I don’t answer immediately. Her fingers tighten on the front of my shirt, twisting the fabric while she waits patiently for me to finish what I’ve started.
"I should've come." The words are clearer now, confident. I’m saying the thing I know to be true.
“Regardless of how we ended up, whether we drifted apart or not, whether I was busy with medical school, none of that mattered. When your mom died, I should have reached out. I should have come to the funeral. I should have been there for you. I wanted to be there for you.”
Her eyes close briefly, relief and grief evident in the drawn lines of her face.
“I have no excuse,” I continue. “I was young and dumb and I’m sorry.”
Maggie looks like she’s about to cry. “For years I imagined hearing those words.
Back then, I thought they would fix something.
I thought they would make sense of the nights spent staring at a ceiling three hours from home, wondering why the future we'd planned together never happened. I thought they would make my grief go away. I was mad at you for not calling, for not coming, for letting me push you away.”
She pauses, sighs, leans her head against my chest as if gathering strength from my heartbeat, then pulls away and looks up at me.
“I’m not a child anymore, Caleb. I know I was just as much at fault for what happened between us.
I should have called you, should have asked you to come, should have told you when it happened instead of just assuming you’d hear it through the grapevine.
” Her hand rests on my chest. “We both made mistakes. But that’s in the past. Let’s just look toward the future.
” She offers a sultry smile. “I’m really glad you’re back. ”
My hand leaves her shoulder and slides into her hair.
"I’m really glad to be back, Mags. I’m glad to be here, with you."
A shaky breath leaves her.
I ease back just far enough to see her face.
Her eyes are bright, and the sight of it squeezes somewhere behind my ribs because Maggie has always carried her pain quietly.
She'll carry it until it crushes her if nobody makes her put it down. But that’s exactly what I’m here for. I won’t let her down again.
I tell her as much. “I’ve missed you,” I say.
She tries to look away, and I tighten my hold. She stills. For a long moment neither of us speaks. The silence feels fragile, like something we've both been circling for years without knowing how to reach.
Eventually she leans into my hand, and the simple trust in that small movement does more to settle the past than any apology ever could.
"We're here now," I say quietly.
Her eyes close and I resume massaging her shoulders.
The tension doesn't disappear from her face. “It’s been a while for me.” Her soft voice carries on a breath that wobbles.
I do not stop my hands. I deepen the pressure instead, letting them glide over the curve of her shoulders, down along the length of her spine, then back up in a slow, grounding rhythm.
I draw her a touch closer, not pulling, not crowding, simply bringing her back against me so she can feel the steady thud of my heart through my chest.
“No rush.” My chin brushes the top of her head as I speak, my thumbs still moving, still soothing. “I’ve got you.”
Her breath catches, then releases in a trembling stream that brushes my chest. I tilt my head so my voice stays low, unhurried, not the doctor, not the man in charge, just me.
“No sex tonight. Just let me hold you.”
Her shoulders drop another inch. The tension does not vanish, but it loosens, like a knot easing under patient fingers. She leans into me, simply closing the distance.
My arm curves around her, not claiming, not pressing, only offering. Her temple finds the hollow beneath my shoulder, her breathing gradually aligning with mine. Outside, the house settles, old boards shifting, pipes ticking, the night carrying on as it must.
Maggie
I rest my cheek against his chest a moment longer and let the small things filter in, one by one.
The scent of him is clean and crisp, soap and something faintly briny like wind coming off deep water, and when I inhale it settles in my lungs in a steadying way.
Beneath my ear his heart beats slow and even, a solid drum that seems to anchor me to the floor.
My palms slide from his back to the narrow dip of his waist, feeling the lean give of muscle under warm skin, the way his body tapers naturally beneath my hands.
I draw in a careful breath that lifts my ribs, then let it out, and I step back just enough that his warmth leaves me in a cool rush.
“Okay,” I say, my voice quieter than I expect. “I’m better now.”
I turn toward the bed and catch the edge of the blankets, folding them back with both hands.
The sheets are crisp and cool, smelling faintly of clean cotton, and the simple motion of preparing the space makes my pulse settle.
When I turn back to him, I bite down on my bottom lip before I can stop myself.
He has already shed his sweater and shirt, and for a heartbeat I forget to breathe.
His upper body looks carved rather than built, all long lines and defined muscle, no softness anywhere I can see.
Shoulders broad, chest firm, abs tight and smooth, the kind of athletic fit that speaks of long hours spent training, of old football fields under stadium lights.
And he’s kept himself fit. Caleb is not one of those high school football players who let himself go to seed once his glory days were over.
My gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the curve of his collarbone, the plane of his chest, the shadowed dip of his stomach.
Memory slips in before I can stop it.
There was a time when I knew his body as well as my own.
Late nights tangled together in his narrow dorm bed during the few times I managed to get away for a visit.
My fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his practice pants while he grinned down at me like he already knew exactly what I wanted.
Falling asleep sprawled across his chest while his heartbeat thudded steadily beneath my ear.
Back then, touching him had felt as natural as breathing.
Maybe Caleb sees it happen across my face because something shifts in his expression, subtle but unmistakable, like he already knows exactly where my mind has gone.
His eyes find mine, steady and unreadable, and his hands come to rest at the waistband of his jeans. His thumbs hook there, but he doesn’t move, not yet. He studies my face with that quiet intensity that always makes me feel seen.
“Should I keep my pants on?” he asks.
Heat floods my cheeks in an instant. I shake my head too quickly, then catch myself and laugh softly at my own panic.
“No, no,” I say, smoothing my hands down the front of my shirt as if that might steady me. “You misunderstood. I was just admiring your physique.”
My gaze flicks to his hands again, then back to his face. I force myself to meet his eyes.
“You can take the pants off. And join me in bed.” I pull my dress over my head and drop it onto the chair. My socks follow. My nipples peak against the fabric of my bra, and I don’t think it’s from the cold. To cover them —and me—I get into bed and curl up on my side.
Only a few moments after I’ve slipped in under the covers, the mattress behind me dips and my back is blanketed by a hard and blessedly warm male body. I shiver.
“Cold?”
“No.” I’m highly aware of the ridged shaft at my bottom. I bite my lip. “I’m already regretting the no-sex agreement.”