Chapter 11 Calla
The engine rumbles beneath me, low and steady like a second heartbeat. Rook sits in front of me, leather cut stretched across broad shoulders, one boot planted to steady the bike as he glances back. That crooked grin hits me like a punch to the lungs.
“Gonna sit back there like a polite little lady all night?” he drawls. “Or are you gonna wrap those arms around me like you used to?”
My face flushes so fast I swear it makes my ears ring.
He doesn’t rush me. Just keeps looking over his shoulder, one brow cocked, waiting like he already knows what I’ll choose.
And of course I do. I want to. So I scoot forward slowly, thighs pressing against the sides of his, fingers trembling slightly as I slide my arms around his waist.
God, he’s warm. Solid. The scent of him—leather, smoke, something darker—wraps around me, makes me dizzy in a way I haven’t felt in years.
“You good back there, Calla Lily?”
His voice is teasing, but there’s a rasp to it now. Like he feels it too. This heat that hums just under the skin. The ache that’s been building from the moment he walked into my living room.
I clear my throat. “I’m good.”
Lie. I’m wired. One spark and I’ll combust. Rook shifts slightly, adjusting the grip on the throttle, and I swear his breath catches when my chest presses into his back.
Neither of us moves for a second too long.
Like we both know this is a line, and once we cross it, we’re not coming back untouched. His hand tightens on the clutch.
“Hold on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, low enough that I feel it more than I hear it. “I don’t plan on goin’ slow.”
And then we’re off. Down the driveway, into the night—me, clinging to the boy I never stopped loving, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.
The engine rumbles as we pull into a cracked parking lot beside a small brick building. Red lanterns hang crookedly over the awning, and a faded sign reads Xiao’s Dumpling House.
“I’ve never been here,” I say over the noise, a little breathless as I unclip the helmet.
Rook glances back, smirking. “I know. Figured that was a crime, so I fixed it.”
Before I can ask what he means, the front door bursts open and a tiny older woman comes hustling out, apron flapping, her white bun pinned tight to the top of her head.
“Ahhh, Wilder boy!” she cackles. “You didn’t say you were bringing your lady. I would’ve added more dessert!”
My eyebrows shoot up as she crosses the lot with surprising speed, carrying not a takeout bag, but a massive insulated basket with a floral scarf tied around the handle.
“I—what is this?” I blink, looking between her and Rook.
“She packed us dinner,” he says casually, hopping off the bike to grab the basket from her hands. “Said if I was taking a good girl into the woods, I better feed her right first.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Auntie squints up at me, then grins. “You are a good girl, aren’t you?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “Don’t let him get you all flustered out there. He’s rough around the edges but soft inside. Like a steamed bun.”
Rook groans. “Okay, Auntie.”
She pats his chest like she’s known him since he was born—and she probably has. Then she turns to me with a wink. “Be careful on that bike, sweet girl. Hold on tight. Maybe don’t let go.”
Then she scurries back inside before I can even thank her. I stare after her, stunned.
Rook sets the basket in my lap as I get back on. “Told you I had one more stop.”
I run my hand over the scarf-covered handle. Inside, the smell of sesame, garlic, and dumpling heaven makes my mouth water.
“You really remembered I liked dumplings?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t look at me, just hands me my helmet and starts the engine again. “I remember everything.”
My heart does something strange. And this time, when I wrap my arms around him, I don’t leave any space between us.
The engine hums beneath us like it remembers too.
Like these back roads were carved just for him and me.
We pass the edge of town in a blur of porch lights and dusk-soaked pine.
The sun’s low now, washing everything in honey and gold, and my cheek rests against the back of Rook’s shoulder as we turn off the main road and into memories.
I know this route. Of course I do. These curves and gravel dips, the shadows where the trees grow thickest—hell, I could ride them blindfolded.
I used to bike these paths as a girl. Used to sneak off in Grimm’s truck after dark.
Used to kiss Rook Wilder under the trees with my whole heart in my mouth, thinking the world ended at the edge of this town.
And now I’m here again. Older. Tired. Carrying too much.
But he still rides like the devil’s behind him, and I still know exactly where we’re headed.
I swallow hard, fingers tightening around his ribs.
He’s warm beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, and every time we hit a bump or curve, I press closer, like it’s instinct.
Like my body remembers what my mind keeps trying to forget.
We pass the broken fence line where the old Miller barn used to stand.
It’s just skeleton wood now, half-swallowed by vines and wildflowers.
And then the turn comes. It’s a narrow trail just past the oak tree that got split in half by lightning.
Rook slows down and leans into the curve like it's muscle memory. Like we’ve never left.
The road turns to dirt. The bike rattles beneath us. And my heart? It’s breaking and rebuilding in the same breath. Because this place—it’s ours.
The hidden clearing. The one with the moss-covered boulders and the creek that runs cold even in July.
Where we laid on a blanket once and mapped the stars with our fingers, whispering the names like they were secrets.
He’s bringing me back here. Back to where we first said I love you.
Back to where we first made love. Back to where I thought he was going to propose…
I close my eyes. And when I open them again, we’re pulling into the trees. The engine dies. Silence wraps around us like a hush in church. And Rook turns his head just enough to glance at me over his shoulder.
“Still with me, Cal?” His voice is low. Careful. Like he knows I’m balancing on a wire made of ghosts and heartache.
I nod. Because I am. I’m here. And I’m not ready. But I want to be.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush me. Just steps off the bike and gets to work with quiet efficiency, pulling the bag Auntie packed from the side satchel and unfolding the blanket with a flick of his wrists. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like we never stopped.
I sit still for a moment longer, then slowly reach up and tug the helmet free.
My hair falls loose around my shoulders, and I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater this whole time.
The scent hits me instantly—wet moss, pine needles, and the sweet rot of old leaves.
It's this place. It always smells like the edge of a storm.
I slide off the bike and walk a few paces away, my boots crunching softly over the earth.
Everything looks smaller than I remember, and yet exactly the same.
The curve of the creek. The boulder with the mossy top, where I used to sit and dip my toes in the water.
The trees forming that half-circle canopy above like a secret dome.
Our cathedral.
I trail my fingers along the bark of an old pine, the skin rough beneath my palm.
So many memories live in this clearing, tucked into the soil like bones.
Our laughter. Our fights. The first time Rook told me he loved me, right here, under the stars and wrapped in nothing but a blanket and teenage hope.
God, I almost hate how much I missed this.
I exhale shakily and turn just enough to catch a glimpse of him. He’s crouched near the creek now, setting out containers on the blanket like this is a normal night. Like we’re not ghosts walking through our past.
He glances up. Doesn’t say a word. Just meets my gaze with that quiet intensity that always used to unspool me.
And maybe still does. I take a slow step toward him.
Then another. He lets me come to him on my own terms. No pushing.
No pressure. Just Rook, offering me space to breathe.
To remember. To maybe—just maybe—hope again.
I lower myself onto the blanket beside him, tucking my legs to the side as I settle onto the soft flannel. Rook hands me a container without a word, the plastic warm against my palms and fogged with steam.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy or forced. Just two people chewing through the awkwardness with pork and cabbage dumplings.
“You really haven’t been back here?” I finally ask, breaking a piece of scallion pancake in half and handing it to him. He takes it without hesitation.
“Not once,” he says, voice quiet. “Couldn’t.”
My eyes flick toward the tree line. “But you remembered the way.”
His shoulder lifts. “Never forgot.”
I nod, chewing slowly. “Didn’t think I’d ever come back here either. Guess Beau changed that.”
“Kid’s got a way of doing that.” Rook grins around his chopsticks, a real one this time—sharp and warm and just a little smug. “He said I had to take you on a date. That’s an order, technically.”
I let out a soft snort. “He also said you had to bring me back in one piece.”
“Well, damn. That ruins my whole plan.”
“Rook,” I warn, swatting his arm with the back of my hand.
“I’m kidding. Kinda.” He leans back on one hand, balancing his container in the other. “You know, he’s smart. Like you. Fierce little shit, too. Already gave me the ‘hurt-my-mama-and-I’ll-bury-you’ speech.”
I blink. “Did he actually say that?”
“No,” Rook laughs. “He just glared at me and said, ‘Mama cries when people leave.’ Then walked away like a damn mafia boss.”
My heart stumbles in my chest, and I look down at my food, suddenly less hungry. “He remembers more than I thought.”