Chapter 6 Bellamy
BELLAMY
Gage shifts a little closer—not crowding, not touching—but close enough that I feel the heat of him. The quiet gravity he’s always had. Like the air adjusted itself around his presence.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says again.
“I can’t either, to be honest.” I keep my eyes on the pool instead of him.
“Then why are you?”
I shrug, casual on the outside, nowhere near casual inside. “You asked.”
“Is that all?” He huffs a soft laugh, and then his hand lifts, slow and deliberate. The pad of his index finger grazes my jawline, and my skin lights up like it remembers him better than I do.
When he tips my face toward him and drags my sunglasses down with two fingers, nostalgia slams into me so hard my breath stutters. For half a heartbeat, the party dissolves, and it’s six years ago. Gage Calloway inches from me, the same hunger simmering in his eyes.
I blink, and the world snaps back.
Music. Laughter. Chlorine-thick air. Gage, older and sharper, looking at me like I’m a question he once answered wrong.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” he says. The words are soft, a confession pulled from him.
My throat tightens. “Well, you weren’t looking for me.”
His mouth lifts, half-smile, half something else. “Maybe I should’ve.”
I don’t have a response for that, not one I’m willing to give him.
He exhales and steps back, like he feels the line snap too. “I’ll grab us drinks.”
“Sure.”
“Stay here,” he says. It’s not a command, but it’s close.
I let him walk away first.
His shoulders cut through the crowd, confident and familiar, and then he disappears inside through the sliding glass doors. The same doors I had walked through a hundred times in another life.
I sink onto the edge of a pool lounger, fingers twisting in the fringe of my jean shorts at my thigh.
I grew up in this backyard. This is where summer lived. In stolen beers, late-night swims, the smell of burgers on the grill, and boards stacked against the fence. Gage always a few steps ahead of me, glancing back with that grin like he was daring me to keep up.
And now he’s inside getting drinks like we’re friends. Or something.
I blink hard. Get a grip, Bellamy.
A shadow drops into my peripheral vision.
“Bell.”
My head snaps up.
Cruz Calloway is sprawled on the opposite end of the lounger, forearms braced on his thighs, long legs stretched out. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but not the way his attention locks in. Slow and precise. Like he’s been watching longer than I realized.
For a beat, my brain blanks.
He looks older. Edges smoothed into something more dangerous. There’s always been something unsettling about the way Cruz watched a room. At twenty-three, it lands differently.
“I thought my brother would never leave,” he says mildly.
I swallow hard.
Because my body recognizes him before my brain does, a visceral jolt low in my stomach that I absolutely do not have time for.
“Cruz,” I manage.
He tilts his head, studying me with that razor-edged intensity he’s always hidden behind stillness.
And God help me, I feel every inch of it.
I drag my gaze off him and look out at the party instead.
Bodies pressed along the pool deck, water sloshing against the edge, laughter bouncing off tile and stucco.
Somehow, even with all this noise, it feels like I’m in a bubble on this side of the patio, insulated, suspended. Like the air is thicker here.
“I should’ve assumed you’d be here.”
Cruz lifts one shoulder in a loose, easy shrug. “It’s Coco’s party. We’re all here.”
I snap my gaze back to him. “All of you? Bishop and Rafe too?”
He leans in a little, just enough for a piece of dark-blond hair to fall across his forehead. My fingers twitch—an old impulse to brush it back, something I did without thinking when we were teenagers. Five seconds near him and my body is already reaching for muscle memory I thought I’d buried.
“Would that be a problem?” he asks. It’s not warm or teasing, but measured. Like he’s taking stock of me.
I let my gaze linger a beat too long, catching the curve of his mouth just as it tilts into that infamous Cruz grin—danger sharpened into amusement. “Not at all. It’d be nice to catch up with your brothers.”
“Hm.” The sound he makes is soft, unreadable. Like he’s filing that away.
Before I can untangle what any of that means, Gage drops onto the lounger across from mine, sitting sideways so he’s fully facing me.
“For you,” he murmurs, holding something out.
A cold cherry Coke in a glass bottle in one hand, and a red velvet cupcake swirled high with cream-cheese frosting in the other.
Two of my favorite things. Two things I haven’t had in years.
My breath catches. “Gage.”
Cruz laughs quietly, stretching his legs out. “That looks like a stoner snack.”
Gage doesn’t pull his gaze from me. “It’s not. They’re her favorites.”
Heat crawls up my throat. I look away too fast, and it only makes it more obvious.
Cruz lifts a brow behind his sunglasses. “Interesting.”
Gage doesn’t move. Both forearms rest on his thighs, shoulders angled toward me like he’s bracing against something. There’s a faint flush at the tops of his cheeks, barely there, but I see it.
“Don’t tell me that in six years you just suddenly stopped loving your two favorite things,” Gage teases.
“No. I’m just surprised you remember.”
His smile blooms—slow, boyish, and fucking devastating. “Some things aren’t easy to forget.”
The air between us tightens and warms, filling with the weight of everything we aren’t saying.
Gage holds the bottle out. Our fingers brush—a soft, electric graze along the side of my thumb—and something flares through my chest so fast it knocks my breath sideways.
“Here.” He flicks off the cap with a bottle opener he must’ve palmed from somewhere, the metal snapping with a clean crack.
Cruz shifts next to me, bumping the side of my leg with his. “Well. This just got more interesting.”
I take a sip. The sweet, crisp cherry Coke floods my tongue. Nostalgia wraps its arms around my shoulders. It’s embrace warm, familiar, and entirely unwelcome. Like a hug I didn’t know I’d been starving for.
“So,” Cruz says, leaning back on his palms, sunglasses glinting, “how’d you do it?”
I lower the bottle. “Do what?”
Cruz studies me like he has all night. Like he has nowhere else to be. “Relax,” he murmurs. “He didn’t tell me anything. Yet.” His gaze flicks to Gage, then back to me. “Though I am curious how he knew it was you. And more importantly—why he didn’t tell us.”
Gage stiffens.
Cruz’s mouth curves, a barely there smile. “But that’s between us brothers.” His attention settles fully on me now. “What I’m more interested in is how the fuck you beat us to it. Have you been following us, Bells?”
The air between us crackles, thickening like humidity before a storm. Accusation braided tight with heat.
My pulse stumbles, and my heart kicks against my ribs with a burst of adrenaline.
This better not have been a fucking trap.
I keep Cruz in my line of sight, but my gaze darts through the yard, searching for Lola. Beckett. A clean exit.
It takes everything inside of me not to swing a glare Gage’s direction.
“I think you’re confused.”
“Nah.” Cruz’s voice drops pitch, calm and certain. “I’m a lot of things, Bells, but I’m not confused. And I’m not wrong.”
The quiet insistence wraps around my throat, dragging my attention back to him like a tether.
“Don’t worry,” he adds softly. “I didn’t tell Coco if that’s what you’re worried about. Not yet, at least.”
It is. Jesus, it is.
Fuck.
Lola was right. Coming here was a bad fucking idea.
I push to my feet, setting the cupcake aside but keeping the Coke clutched tight in my hand. “I should go.”
Cruz raises a brow, but Gage moves first, leaning forward and punching him in the arm. Cruz jerks back with a grunt.
“Don’t be a dick,” Gage snaps. Then he turns to me, his voice dropping. “Bell, you don’t have to leave. My brother’s just hangry. He started juicing and now he’s taking it out on everyone.”
Cruz scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not juicing. Jesus Christ, Gage. I make juice. I don’t take steroids.”
Gage shoots him a look, eyes narrowing, mouth twisting into something halfway between a scowl and a smirk. “Don’t worry, Cruzie.” He claps him on the shoulder—hard. “Maybe one day you’ll bulk up and be as big as me. And hey, if you need a little help.” He shrugs, all mock innocence.
Cruz’s jaw tightens before he lets out a humorless laugh. “Careful,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you want to go there, brother.”
Their bickering creates a crack in the moment—just enough noise, just enough movement. An opening.
I don’t hesitate.
I shift my weight onto my back foot, preparing to step over the lounger instead of Cruz’s legs.
Cruz’s attention cuts back to me immediately, interest sparking like a struck match. “The Bells I remember,” he says, gaze drifting over me in a slow, unapologetic sweep that feels like a hand along bare skin. “Didn’t run at the first sign of trouble.”
My spine straightens. “Is that what this is, Cruz? Trouble?”
His mouth curves into something lazy and sharp. “Why? Are you in it?”
Heat flickers down my arms. My pulse thuds at the base of my throat. Every part of me wants to react, which is exactly why I don’t.
“Depends on your definition,” I say, letting the words tread the fine I always danced on with this Calloway brother. “But either way, I have to get going.”
Fuck it. I step over one of Cruz’s legs when Gage stands, fingers closing around my wrist. I stop short, caught between them. Cruz sprawled back and watching. Gage too close, breath warm against my skin.
“Wait,” Gage says, voice rough. “Don’t leave because of him. Say the word, and I’ll get rid of him.”
Something loosens inside me. God, don’t do that. Not when the years between us suddenly feel tissue-thin.
“I really do have somewhere to be,” I say softly.
It lands somewhere between truth and a lie. The place I need to be is simply not here. Not with every warning bell in my body ringing at once.
My gaze snags on the hard line of Gage’s jaw, the muscle ticking like he’s biting back a dozen things he wants to say.
How curious that six years can feel like a lifetime and somehow like no time at all.
Lola appears then, like the angel she is, slowing as she takes in the scene. Her brows lift as she reads the tension in the air with brutal accuracy. Her gaze lands on me, one brow lifting. You good?
I give a tiny tilt of my head toward the side gate. Let’s go.
She dips her chin. Got it.
“Ready to head out?” she asks aloud, bright and breezy. “We have that thing.”
“Yeah,” I exhale, stepping fully clear of Cruz’s legs. Gage’s fingers trail off my wrist as he lets go, dragging over sensitive skin. “I just need to grab Beck.”
We all glance across the patio where Beckett—my menace of a brother—is half-pinned by a girl in cutoffs while three guys chat with him over tacos.
Lola huffs. “I’ll get him. Meet you out front.”
I nod.
“I’ll walk you out,” Gage says immediately.
“It’s fine.” I wave a hand, already backing away. “I know the way.”
Cruz comes to stand beside him, amusement curling at his mouth, something sharp and unreadable glinting in his eyes like he’s cataloging every second of this.
Gage dips his head, then follows anyway, his hand grazing the small of my back as we move toward the gate. Barely a touch. More suggestion than contact.
It still short-circuits my breath.
We’re steps from the gate when Coco appears out of nowhere, gliding toward us with a drink in one hand and a soft, knowing smile.
“Leaving already, honey?”
I turn, schooling my expression. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Calloway.”
“Oh, Bellamy. You know to call me Coco.” She waves that off and steps in, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
Her fingers linger there, warm and familiar and deeply confusing.
“Look at you. All grown up. I still remember when you were all elbows and knees and couldn’t fill out a swimsuit to save your life. ”
I blink, caught somewhere between embarrassment and a strange, aching warmth.
Her hand lingers at my cheek. “You were at my table every Sunday back then. Why don’t you come again this weekend? I’ll make a roast. And I know the rest of my boys would love to see you.”
The offer settles in my chest—unnerving in its softness.
Maybe this is what maternal gestures are supposed to feel like.
Not that I would know.
I should say no. But refusing would only draw attention. And some reckless, strategic part of me decides it’s better to step into the fire where I can see it than pretend it isn’t already spreading.
“I—yeah,” I say, steadying my voice. “That sounds nice. Thank you.”
Coco beams. “Wonderful.”
Whatever goodbye Gage might’ve offered dissolves in her presence. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then lets the moment slip away.
I step through the gate, the weight of their attention clinging to my back long after I’m gone.