Chapter 11 Calla #3
Grimm lifts his head from the couch, a book open on his chest. He sees us and immediately presses a finger to his lips. Then he nods toward the hallway. “Beau.”
My heart flutters like it always does when I hear his name. I toe off my shoes and step inside slowly, the change in temperature kissing my skin. Rook does the same, his fingers still linked with mine like he can’t quite let go.
He doesn’t speak. Just looks around, jaw tense, taking it all in. The hand-painted picture frames. The couch covered in a patchwork blanket. The boots too small to be mine by the door.
He sees it all. I wonder if he hears it — the echo of a little boy’s laughter that fills this space every day. The sound of the life I built from ash and instinct. He squeezes my hand gently. And for the first time in years, I let him.
Grimm stands from the couch, careful not to jostle the blanket over his lap. “Hey,” he says, voice soft as a lullaby. “Beau knocked out cold after the movie. I think he made it ten minutes in before he passed out.”
I smile, a little dazed from the wreckage of everything that just happened, but grateful.
Grimm reaches for his keys, then pauses in the doorway. “He’s a great kid, Calla Lily. You did good.”
Emotion spikes again, sharper this time. I nod, throat tight. “Thanks, Grimmy.”
He smirks. “Oh, and I may have promised him a puppy.”
My head snaps up. “You what?”
Grimm shrugs like it’s no big deal and grins like the devil himself. “Be safe, kids!” he singsongs, slipping out the door before I can throw anything at him.
The door clicks shut. Silence blooms in his place.
Full of all the things we’re still too scared to say.
I turn to Rook. He’s standing there in my living room, looking so big and steady and out of place in the soft glow of the lamp beside the couch.
Like he doesn’t quite believe any of this is real.
I hesitate. Then ask it as softly as I can. “Will you stay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me like he’s memorizing my face all over again. Then, he nods. And smiles. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I let it out. I reach for his hand. He takes it like it’s instinct. Like it’s always been instinct. And I lead him to my bedroom.
The door closes behind us, and suddenly the air changes. Thickens. I take a few steps into my bedroom, but when I turn around, he's already there. So close. His eyes find mine in the darkness, and for a moment, we just breathe the same air.
I reach up, my fingers trembling slightly as they touch his face. The stubble on his jaw feels exactly how I remembered. He leans into my palm, his eyes closing briefly.
"Calla," he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer.
I rise onto my tiptoes, pressing my lips to his.
Softly at first. Testing. His hands hover at my sides, barely touching, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he holds too tight.
But I need more. I need to feel real again.
I deepen the kiss, and something shifts.
His restraint snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
His hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him as he walks me backward until my spine meets the wall.
The kiss turns hungry, desperate, his body pressing mine into the plaster.
One of his hands finds my hair, tangling in it as he tilts my head back. His mouth travels down my neck, hot and demanding. I whimper as he finds that spot just below my ear that always made me weak.
"I've dreamed about this," he murmurs against my skin. "Every night for five years."
My hands slip under his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his stomach, the ridges of scars I don't recognize. New stories written on his body while we were apart. He shudders at my touch.
"Me too," I confess, my voice barely audible. "God, Rook, I missed you so much."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes tracing every feature of my face like he's afraid I'll vanish. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, touch gentle despite the calluses.
"You're even more beautiful now," he whispers. "Stronger. Braver."
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice. This isn't the raw, angry collision from earlier. This is something else entirely.
"You raised our son," he continues, pressing his forehead to mine. "You kept him safe. Built a life. You're fucking incredible, Calla."
His words wash over me as my fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He raises his arms, letting me pull it off, revealing the landscape of his chest—familiar territory with new landmarks. Scars I don't recognize. Tattoos that weren't there before.
"You're different too," I whisper, tracing a jagged line across his ribs.
He catches my hand, brings it to his lips. "Only on the outside."
I feel my shirt sliding up, his hands warm against my skin. I lift my arms as he pulls it over my head, his breath catching as he takes me in.
"Perfect," he murmurs, fingers skimming the edge of my bra. "Always so fucking perfect."
Our clothes fall away piece by piece—my bra unhooked with practiced ease, his jeans pushed down muscled thighs, my leggings peeled away like a second skin. With each layer shed, his praise continues, whispered against my collarbone, my stomach, the inside of my thigh.
"Look what you've done," he says, reverence in his voice as his hands map the silvery stretch marks on my hips. "You carried our son," he whispers, his fingertips tracing the silvery marks with reverence.
We stand before each other completely bare, all pretense stripped away with our clothes. The moonlight spills through the curtains, painting his body in silver and shadow. His eyes never leave mine as he reaches for my hand.
"Come here," he says, voice rough with emotion.
He guides me toward the bed, his fingers warm and sure around mine. The sheets are cool against my skin as he lowers me down; the mattress dips beneath our combined weight. He hovers above me for a moment, his gaze traveling over every inch of me like he's committing me to memory all over again.
"Is this real?" he asks, his hand cupping my cheek. "Tell me this is real."
I turn my face to press a kiss against his palm. "I'm here. We're here."
His body covers mine, skin to skin, and I gasp at the contact. It's overwhelming—the heat of him, the weight, the familiar scent that somehow survived four years of absence. My hands explore the landscape of his back, finding new scars, new stories written in raised flesh.
His lips trail down my neck, leaving heat in their wake. I shiver as he dips lower, his mouth finding the hollow between my collarbones. He takes his time, savoring each inch of skin like it's the first time all over again. And in some ways, it is.
"I need to taste you," he murmurs against my ribs, his voice vibrating through my bones. "Every part of you."
I arch as his mouth moves lower, his hands spreading my thighs with gentle insistence. My fingers tangle in his hair as he kisses down my stomach, lingering at the stretch marks there. He traces each silvery line with his tongue like they're sacred, like they're proof of something miraculous.
"Beautiful," he whispers against my hipbone. "So fucking beautiful."
When his mouth finally finds me, I gasp, my back lifting off the mattress.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, keeping me steady as his tongue explores with devastating precision.
He remembers everything—every spot that makes me tremble, every rhythm that drives me wild.
Five years apart, and my body is still a map he knows by heart.
"Rook," I breathe, his name a prayer on my lips.
He holds me there, at the edge, his mouth relentless until I shatter beneath him, waves of pleasure crashing through my body.
My thighs tremble against his shoulders, but he doesn't stop, drawing out every last sensation until I'm gasping his name like a litany.
When he finally moves back up my body, his eyes are dark with need, his lips glistening. He kisses me deeply, and I taste myself on his tongue, raw and intimate.
"I need you," he whispers against my mouth. "Now."
I reach between us, guiding him to me. We both freeze when he pushes inside, the connection so overwhelming that for a moment neither of us can move. His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.
"God, Calla," he groans, voice breaking. "You feel like coming home."
He moves slowly at first, each thrust deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. This isn't like before—no anger driving us, no desk rattling beneath us. This is a rediscovery, an excavation of everything we once were to each other. A slow, careful rebuilding of something we thought was lost forever.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he shudders against me. His hands frame my face as he moves, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize were falling.
"I love you," he whispers, the words falling between us like stones into still water. "I never stopped. Not for a second."
My heart cracks open. "I love you too. God, Rook, I love you so much it hurts."
He captures my mouth in a kiss that tastes like promises, like second chances. Our bodies move together in perfect rhythm, finding that familiar dance we thought we'd forgotten. But muscle memory runs deeper than time, deeper than pain.
I feel myself climbing toward that precipice again, my body tightening around him. He feels it too, his movements becoming more urgent.
"Come with me," he breathes against my ear. "I need you to come with me."
I shatter first, his name torn from my throat as pleasure crashes through me. He follows seconds later, burying his face in my neck as he spills into me, his body shaking with the force of release. My name on his lips sounds like redemption.
We stay like that, tangled together, heartbeats gradually slowing. His weight anchors me, keeps me from floating away on the tide of emotion threatening to drown me. I stroke his hair, feeling the dampness at his temples, the familiar texture between my fingers.
"I can't believe you're here," I whisper into the darkness.
He shifts, rolling to his side but keeping me close, one arm draped possessively over my waist. His fingers trace idle patterns on my hip.
"I keep thinking I'll wake up," he admits, voice rough. "Been having this dream for years. Never ends like this, though."
I turn to face him, our noses almost touching. "How does it usually end?"
His eyes close briefly, pain flickering across his features. "You disappear. Or I reach for you, and my hands go right through. Or—" he swallows hard, "—sometimes I find you, but you're cold. Gone."
I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my touch. "I'm here. We're here."
"Yeah," he breathes, covering my hand.
His breathing gradually deepens and slows. I watch as his eyelids grow heavy, fighting to stay open as his fingers trace lazy patterns on my skin.
"Sleep," I whisper, brushing my lips against his forehead.
"Don't wanna," he mumbles, but his eyes are already closing. "Afraid you'll be gone when I wake up."
I curl closer, resting my head on his chest. "I'll be right here. Promise."
A few minutes later, his arm goes slack around my waist, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. I prop myself up on one elbow, studying his face in the moonlight. The years have hardened him, carving new lines around his eyes and mouth. Battle scars of a different kind.
I brush my fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face, and that's when I see it, tucked behind his right ear, partially hidden by his hairline.
A small, delicate calla lily tattoo. My breath catches.
My flower. My name. Inked permanently into his skin, in a place so private it feels like a secret whispered only to himself.
The tears come without warning, hot and silent on my pillow.
My chest aches with a love so raw it feels like an open wound.
I curl against him, pressing my face into his shoulder, letting the tears flow freely.
I cry for all the years we lost, for the little boy sleeping down the hall who's gone so long without a father, for the broken teenagers we once were who thought they had forever.
But god, I love him so much. The realization hits me with such force that it steals my breath. I love the man he was, the man he's become, every version of him I've ever known.
I've spent five years running. Five years building walls and escape routes.
Five years with one foot always out the door.
But as I lie here listening to his steady heartbeat, I know with absolute certainty I'm not leaving this time.
Not Berlin, not Rook, not this second chance we've somehow been given.
The tears eventually slow, and my breathing steadies. I trace the outline of the tattoo behind his ear one more time, marveling at this secret declaration of love he's carried all this time. My eyelids grow heavy, the emotional exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me.
I press one last kiss to his shoulder and let sleep take me.