Chapter 31 Delaney
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Delaney
Saying professional out loud was one thing. Sitting in a cabin with three men who now feel like they’re orbiting me at different distances is something else entirely.
The place is small. Smaller than it looked when we first arrived. The walls seem closer now, the ceilings lower. Every footstep echoes. Every door opening feels overwhelming. There is nowhere to disappear to without it being noticeable.
I didn’t realize how much I relied on movement, on cooking, cleaning, filling space, until suddenly I’m trying very hard not to.
We eat simple food that Silas throws together. Pasta. Jarred sauce. Bread that isn’t sad, but isn’t magic either. I offer to help and then stop myself halfway to the counter, remembering the line I drew like a chalk boundary.
Professional.
Clear.
Silas chatters more than usual, but it’s forced. Like he’s talking around us instead of to us. Boone responds with short, efficient sentences, eyes on his plate. Caleb is quieter than all of them, which is saying a lot.
I feel like a bruise everyone keeps accidentally pressing.
After dinner, Boone announces he’s going to take a walk before it gets too dark. He doesn’t ask if anyone wants to join him. Silas offers to clean up, then changes his mind and says he’ll grab firewood instead.
That leaves me alone in the kitchen.
With Caleb.
The silence stretches. Not awkward, exactly. Heavy. Charged. A held breath that’s gone on too long.
I rinse my plate, the sound of running water giving me something to focus on besides the way Caleb is leaning against the counter behind me, arms folded.
“I’m sorry,” I say suddenly.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush to answer.
“For before,” I add. “For… pushing you away. I didn’t realize I was doing it at first. And then I did, and I kept doing it anyway.”
The water keeps running. My hands tremble a little as I stack the plate in the rack.
Caleb exhales, slow and even. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
I shake my head. “I do.”
I turn the faucet off and face him, forcing myself to stay still instead of pacing like I want to.
“You showed up for me,” I continue. “When I was falling apart. You sat with me. You didn’t ask for anything. And then I treated you like… like proximity was dangerous.”
He watches me carefully now, dark eyes still, no accusation in them.
“I figured you were scared,” he says.
The simplicity of it cracks open my chest.
“I was,” I admit. “I am.”
He nods once. “That tracks.”
I huff out a weak breath that might be a laugh. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” he says without hesitation. “I was hurt. Different thing.”
That lands heavier than anger would have.
“I didn’t want to need you,” I whisper. “I’ve learned the hard way that needing people can get… twisted. Used against you. Or turned into something ugly.”
Caleb shifts, uncrossing his arms, then thinks better of it and leans back again, giving me space. Always space.
“I know,” he says quietly.
I study his face, the familiar lines of it softened in the firelight.
“How?” I ask.
He considers the question, then answers honestly. “Because I’ve been left.”
The words sit between us.
“My mom loved me,” he continues. “Still does. But loving someone and staying are different skills. She was always chasing the next version of herself. I learned early that if I wanted people to stay, I had to make myself… useful. Easy.”
My throat tightens.
“So when you pulled back,” he adds, “it didn’t make me angry. It just made me wonder what I’d done wrong.”
The guilt is sharp and immediate.
“You didn’t,” I say quickly. “Caleb, you didn’t. This is all… me.”
He smiles faintly. “I know. That’s why I waited.”
“For what?”
“For you to come back to yourself,” he says simply.
The room feels warmer suddenly. Or maybe I do.
I swallow, nerves buzzing under my skin. “I should tell you what happened. Not the internet version. The real one.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his posture shifts.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
“I want to.” I stare at my hands for a long second before I trust my voice.
“Marcus didn’t start out cruel,” I say. “That’s the part people don’t understand.
If he’d been awful from the beginning, I would’ve run.
Or at least known what to call it. He was…
attentive. He remembered things. Tiny things.
How I liked my knives stored. That I hated wasting herbs.
He’d notice when I was tired before I said anything. He made it feel like we were a team.”
“That’s how you hook someone,” Caleb murmurs.
I nod. “He’d say things like, ‘I don’t trust many people, Delaney,’ or ‘Most cooks crumble under pressure, but you don’t.’” My mouth twists. “I thought it meant I was strong.”
“You were,” Caleb says.
“I was compliant,” I correct quietly. “There’s a difference.”
His jaw tightens, just a fraction.
“At first, everything extra felt like a reward,” I go on.
“Extra shifts. Extra responsibility. Late nights where it was just the two of us in the kitchen, music low, burners still warm. He’d stand too close, brush past me, correct my posture with his hands.
” I swallow. “If I pulled away, he’d act offended. Like I’d hurt him.”
Caleb’s fingers curl against his forearm.
“And if I leaned in,” I say, barely above a whisper, “he’d smile. Like I’d passed a test.”
“That’s not consent,” Caleb says sharply.
I glance up, startled by the edge in his tone.
He exhales, clearly reining himself back in. “Sorry. Keep going.”
I do.
“When things crossed the line, really crossed it, I told myself it was mutual. That I chose it. Because that was easier than admitting how uneven it was. He was famous. Untouchable. And I was… replaceable.”
“You weren’t,” Caleb says.
“To him?” I shake my head. “I was talent. Until I wasn’t convenient anymore.”
I take a breath, steadier now that I’ve started.
“He hated it when I questioned him,” I say. “If I asked why we were doing something a certain way, he’d go cold. Wouldn’t yell, he was smarter than that. He’d just withdraw. Stop praising me. Stop including me. And I’d panic.”
Caleb’s brow furrows. “Because your job depended on his approval.”
“And my identity,” I admit. “I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d wrapped around that kitchen. Around him.”
I laugh softly, humorless. “Once, during service, he changed one of my dishes without telling me. Served it under his name. When I asked him about it later, he told me I was ‘too sensitive’ and that it was ‘how the industry works.’”
“That would’ve pissed me off,” Caleb mutters.
“It did,” I say. “But somehow I still ended up apologizing. For causing tension. For making things awkward.”
His jaw tightens again, harder this time.
“And when things ended?” he asks carefully.
“That’s when the story changed,” I reply. “Suddenly, I wasn’t his protégée. I was unstable. Obsessive. A distraction.” My throat tightens. “He never said I stalked him. He just… let other people say it. Never corrected them.”
Caleb’s hands drop to his sides, fists clenched now. “Coward.”
The word comes out low and vicious.
I flinch, not from him, but from how accurate it feels.
“He implied I couldn’t handle rejection,” I continue.
“That I’d misread everything. That my ambition had turned into fixation.
” My eyes burn. “He told people I ‘wanted more than he could give.’ All while he was in the middle of a divorce he hadn’t finalized—or made public.
An affair with me would’ve looked bad for him. So it was easier to blame me.”
Caleb turns away abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face.
I think he’s going to walk out.
Instead, he plants his hands on the counter, shoulders tight, breath measured.
“I want to put him through a wall,” he growls. “Just once.”
“You don’t have to fix it,” I say quickly. “I don’t need rescuing.”
He looks back at me then, eyes fierce but controlled. “I know. That’s why it makes me mad.”
The room hums with it. Anger, sympathy, guilt threaded through.
“I stayed quiet,” I say. “Because I thought if I didn’t make waves, it would pass. But silence became proof. People decided if I wasn’t screaming, it must be because I was guilty.”
Caleb steps closer now.
“That kind of narrative sticks,” he says. “Especially when it benefits the powerful person.”
“I walked away with nothing,” I whisper. “My reputation burned. My confidence shredded. And him?” I shrug helplessly. “He kept cooking. Kept winning awards. Kept being brilliant.”
Caleb shakes his head once. “That doesn’t mean you were wrong.”
“I know that here,” I say, tapping my temple. “But some days, it still lives here.” I press my hand to my chest. “Like I’m one bad decision away from proving them right.”
“You didn’t ruin anything by wanting to be valued.”
I fracture at that.
“I’m terrified of repeating it,” I admit. “Of not seeing the red flags because they look like attention. Or passion. Or… chemistry.”
Caleb meets my gaze unflinchingly.
“Then we don’t confuse intensity for safety,” he says. “We don’t blur lines. We don’t rush.”
My breath catches.
“And if something feels off?” he adds. “You say it. Even if it’s messy. Especially then.”
I nod, throat tight.
“I pushed you away,” I say quietly. “Because I didn’t trust myself. And I didn’t want to drag you into something broken.”
Caleb steps close enough now that I can feel the warmth of him. Still not touching.
“You didn’t break me,” he says. “You scared me. There’s a difference.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I know,” he replies. “And I forgive you.”
The space between us feels suddenly too small.
I can see the faint scar along his jaw. The tired kindness in his eyes. The restraint it must take for him to stand here and not do what we both feel pulling at us.
My body leans before my brain catches up.
So does his.
It would be so easy. One step. One breath. One moment of forgetting everything else.
His hand lifts, then stops, hovering near my arm.
“Delaney…”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”
If we kiss, it won’t be an accident.
It will be a choice.
And right now, choice feels dangerous.
I step back first, the loss of his warmth hitting hard.
Caleb exhales slowly, nodding once, steadying himself too.
“Goodnight,” he says.
“Goodnight,” I echo.
I go to bed restless, staring at the ceiling, every nerve lit up and unsatisfied.
My past feels loud. My present feels complicated. My future is a question I don’t know how to answer.
I curl onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow.
I did the right thing.
I know I did.
That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
And as sleep finally drags me under, one thought loops through me, stubborn and unresolved:
How do you protect yourself without closing your heart completely?