Chapter Twenty-Seven
Callum
I didn’t mean to walk her home.
Not at first.
But when she stood from the barstool, murmured a thank-you, and slid her empty plate toward the edge, something in me wouldn’t let her walk away alone.
She didn’t ask.
She didn’t have to.
“I’ll walk you back,” I said gruffly, pulling on my flannel from behind the bar.
She gave me a look. Not surprised. Not grateful, exactly. Just knowing.
Like she’d expected me to do it, and I didn’t know what to make of that.
We stepped out into the night air, the breeze cutting just enough to remind me that a spring storm wasn’t far off. The quiet of Reckless River stretched around us, sleepy and still, the streetlamps casting pools of amber on the cracked sidewalk.
She didn’t say anything for the first few doors down.
I didn’t either.
But the silence wasn’t heavy this time.
It was thick with something else. Something electric. Something neither of us wanted to name.
By the time we reached her apartment stairs, I could feel it in my chest. That pulsing, humming ache of a live wire ready to snap.
She stopped in front of the door and looked up at me. “You want a beer?”
Simple.
Soft.
Dangerous.
I hesitated for half a second.
And then I nodded.
She tossed her keys onto the little entry table and wandered into the kitchen. I lingered near the window, watching the town I’d always known stretch quietly beneath the stars. It looked smaller tonight. Or maybe I suddenly felt too big for it, as if everything inside me was pressing against the seams.
She returned with two bottles and handed one over.
We didn’t tap them or give some lame salutation.
Just sipped.
The air in her apartment was warm and full of something that felt like memory. The kind of stillness that lets grief hang in the corners with familiarity.
She sank onto the old rust-colored loveseat and curled her legs beneath her.
I stayed standing.
Because if I sat next to her, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep my hands to myself.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice low.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
But she wasn’t.
And neither was I.
There was a rawness between us. Open wounds we hadn’t even finished describing, let alone stitching closed. But somehow, that made the air buzz louder.
I took another sip, watching her over the rim of the bottle.
She looked tired.
Beautiful.
Dangerous in a whole different way.
And then she looked at me, and that was it.
I set the bottle down and crossed the room in two strides.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched me come toward her like she’d been waiting.
I sat beside her.
Close.
Too close.
Her breath hitched. Just barely.
But I felt it.
“Lydia,” I said, like her name alone might stop me.
It didn’t.
She turned toward me, and I could see everything on her face—hesitation, hurt, want.
Her eyes dropped to my mouth.
And mine to hers.
That was the last straw.
I kissed her.
God help me, I kissed her like I couldn’t survive not kissing her.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t slow.
Two people had lost too much, held on too tight, and were suddenly too tired to fall apart in each other’s arms.
Her hands fisted in my shirt.
Mine slid into her hair.
And when she sighed against my mouth, I felt it all the way to my bones.
She tasted like warmth and heartbreak, like something sweet I hadn’t earned but couldn’t resist.
I pulled her closer than I had a right to, and she let me.
Her fingers splayed across my chest like she was trying to memorize the shape of me, and I couldn’t breathe around how much I wanted this.
Wanted her.
Her legs shifted, and I felt her press against me, chest to chest, heart to heart.
And still, I kissed her like the world might end if I stopped.
Because maybe it would.
Because maybe it already had, and this was the first thing that felt like a new beginning.
But beneath the heat, beneath the sizzle and the sound of her breath catching and the weight of her hands on me, there was something else.
Grief.
Mine.
Hers.
A thrum of pain under the surface, binding us together like scar tissue.
I pulled back first, my forehead resting against hers, breathing hard.
She was breathing hard, too.
Her eyes were glassy.
Her lips were swollen and trembling.
“This shouldn’t be happening,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said.
But neither of us moved.
“You make me forget,” I admitted. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
She nodded once. “You make me feel like I’m not broken.”
I closed my eyes, her words crashing through me like a tidal wave.
And then she touched my face…just one soft brush of her fingers along my jaw.
“I don’t want to be something you regret,” she said.
“You’re not,” I rasped.
But you might be something I lose.
I didn’t say it out loud.
I couldn’t.
I kissed her again, softer this time. Slower. Like I was afraid she might disappear if I let go.
And maybe I was.
Because for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone in my pain.
And that made her more dangerous than anything.
Because I wanted her.
Not just for tonight.
Not just for comfort.
But for everything.
And that? That was the scariest part of all.
I hadn’t meant to stay.
Hadn’t meant to touch her again.
Hadn’t meant to need her.
But the second my mouth was on hers…soft, slow, reverent now, like I was rediscovering the shape of something I didn’t know I’d been missing, it was over.
My hands moved without asking, threading through her hair, brushing her cheek, cradling her like I was terrified she’d vanish.
Because maybe I was.
She kissed me back like she meant it. Like she needed it just as badly. Her fingers curled in the front of my flannel shirt, tugging, anchoring herself to me like she was afraid I’d pull away.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
God, her mouth was warm. Soft. Sure.
And her body… her body fit against mine like it was carved there, like we were two puzzle pieces that had been flung across separate rooms for too long and finally found each other in the dark.
I deepened the kiss, and her breath hitched in a way that made every nerve in my body fire off at once. My hand slid to her waist, steady and slow, needing to feel her, to make sure she was real.
Because nothing had felt real in a long damn time.
Not since Lucy.
Not since I buried half of myself in the ground beside her and walked away with the other half locked in my chest.
But Lydia—
Lydia made it all burn again.
The good, the bad. The sharp edges I’d dulled down for survival. She was touching nerves I didn’t know were still alive.
She was breath, spark, bite, and life .
I pulled back just enough to look at her.
Her eyes opened slowly, pupils dark and wide, lips pink and parted like she wasn’t done with me yet. I brushed my thumb across the curve of her cheek, and she leaned into it like it was instinct.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice rough with everything I was holding back.
She nodded, just barely. “Yeah.”
But her voice trembled.
And something in me softened at the edges.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I said. “If I’m too much.”
“You’re not,” she said quickly, her hand curling around my wrist. “I just… didn’t expect this.”
“Me either.”
It was the most honest thing I’d said all week.
I kissed her again, slow and careful this time, like I had all the time in the world, even though every part of me felt like a live wire.
She kissed me like she trusted me.
And that…that damn near wrecked me.
Because I hadn’t earned that yet.
Not from her.
Not from anyone.
But she gave me permission freely, this soft, aching kind, to hold her, kiss her, and press my forehead to hers while her hands slid under my shirt, fingers grazing my skin like I was something worth touching.
I hissed out a breath. “Jesus.”
She smiled against my mouth. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Maybe I’m not.”
That quiet, breathless laugh broke something in me.
And mended it all at once.
I hadn’t laughed intimately with someone in years. Hadn’t wanted to. Hadn’t felt enough to.
But here I was, tangled up in this woman I’d sworn I couldn’t stand, and she was undoing me with one touch at a time.
I leaned back and stared at her.
She was a mess—ponytail falling out, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. And I’d never seen anything so goddamn beautiful.
“You’re gonna wreck me, aren’t you?” I asked, low and quiet.
Her lips twitched. “Not if you wreck me first.”
My chest cracked open.
That was it.
No walls. No filters. No pretending I wasn’t already halfway ruined by how she looked at me.
I kissed her like I didn’t care how deep we were already in.
Like I’d waited years for someone to look at me like I wasn’t just grief in a flannel shirt.
We melted into the couch, bodies tangled, breaths uneven, beer bottles forgotten on the table behind us. My shirt ended up somewhere on the floor, and her hoodie joined it.
But we didn’t rush.
It wasn’t about sex.
Not tonight.
It was about skin.
Contact.
Relearning the language of touch with someone who wasn’t afraid of the broken pieces.
At one point, she laid her head on my chest, hand over my heart like she needed proof it was still beating. And I let her stay there.
Because for the first time in years, I wanted someone to feel it.
I wanted her to feel it.
The way her mouth curled into a smile mid-kiss made my blood heat even more. God, she knew exactly what she was doing.
She molded to me, warm and wanting, and I could hardly think around the ache she pulled from me with nothing more than her body, her lips, her laugh.
I barely pulled away to catch my breath, but she shook her head like she couldn’t bear the space.
“Please don’t stop,” she whispered.
Her voice was hoarse with need, and I’d never wanted anything more in my life than to give in to it.
I smiled, leaned over just enough to shut the blinds.
She laughed, low and breathless, and pressed her forehead to mine. “Didn’t even think of that. Somebody could’ve gotten an eyeful.”
“If I’m lucky,” I murmured, my lips brushing hers again.
Her fingers slipped under my shirt and dragged slowly across my stomach, sending a bolt of heat straight through me. When they reached my chest, she paused, fingers splayed across my skin like she was trying to read the language of my scars and muscles.
And I let her.
I’d never let anyone look at me like that. Like I was something she wanted, just like this. Not fixed. Not polished.
Just… me.
Her eyes never left mine, and I shivered beneath her touch.
Every part of me was screaming to strip her bare and feel her against me. To sink into her and forget the last few years ever happened. But there was another part—quieter, more afraid—that kept whispering this might be the night that undid me.
Because if I gave her everything, and she walked away?
There wouldn’t be anything left.
Lydia leaned in, her nose brushing mine, and that fear slipped away as her hips rolled against mine, slow and deliberate.
She was right there with me. Wild and soft, gentle and fierce. Her hands slid under my shirt, and she started tugging it up. I helped her peel it off. She tossed it aside like it was just another barrier we didn’t need anymore.
Then her mouth was back on mine, and it wasn’t rushed.
It was intentional.
She kissed me like she wanted to memorize every inch of my lips, and when she pulled away, it was just to nip my bottom lip before lowering her mouth to my chest.
She pressed soft, open kisses there, dragging her lips across skin like it was new to her. My eyes fluttered shut for a second until I felt the brush of her hair against my stomach, and when I opened them again, I nearly lost it.
She was on her knees in front of me, her hands skimming the waistband of my jeans, her eyes flicking up to mine like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
I hissed through my teeth as she undid the button.
Every muscle in my body went taut, every inch of me focused on the way her hands moved, the anticipation turning to fire under my skin.
But I wasn’t about to let her take the lead for long.
I grabbed her by the waist and hauled her back up onto my lap, kissing her hard as I reached for the hem of her shirt. She arched into me, letting me strip it off, and I made quick work of her bra with one hand while the other curled around her back.
Her bare skin against mine?
Damn near devastating.
Her nipples were tight against my chest, and I growled into her mouth as she reached into my boxers and wrapped her hand around me.
A sound tore out of me, raw and broken, while I cupped one of her breasts, letting my thumb sweep across her, savoring every inch like I had all night to worship her.
She moved against me, breath catching, and I didn’t even realize how far gone I was until her other hand slid into my hair and tugged hard enough to make me see stars.
I slid my hand down the front of her pants, under the soft fabric of her panties, and found her already soaked and warm for me.
She gasped, hips bucking as I slipped my fingers inside her and circled her with my thumb, slowly at first, then exactly how I knew she liked it.
Her whole body tensed against me, and I felt her hand around me tighten in rhythm.
We were teetering on the edge, both of us breathing hard, and when her voice broke against my shoulder, high and wrecked, it pushed me right over with her.
We came undone like that.
Not even fully naked.
Just wrapped around each other in her apartment with the blinds shut and the air thick with heat and heartache and want.
When it was over, we collapsed against the couch in a mess of limbs and flushed skin. The silence was filled with ragged breath and the rapid beat of two hearts that had stopped pretending they didn’t belong to each other.
I held her tight and kissed her temple, her hair stuck to my cheek, and her fingers tangled in mine.
She wasn’t going anywhere.
And for the first time in a long time, neither was I.
“You make me feel alive again,” I murmured into her hair, the words shocking even me.
She stilled.
Then whispered, “You are alive, Callum.”
And I believed her.
For once, I let myself believe it.