Chapter 10
CALVIN
The wheels kiss tarmac as the sky turns pink-gold.
A line tech swings open the door, quiet ramp waiting.
My rental idles ten steps from the wing, keys clipped to the visor.
A nod and a quiet “Welcome back, Cal.”
The hum of the engine fades, replaced by silence.
Familiar roads. Familiar ache.
This isn’t just another landing.
It’s about going home.
By 7:45 that evening, I’m pulling into the Willow Ridge B a drop clings to the rim. Her tongue darts to catch it and something low and primal stirs in me.
And for a beat it hits me. This is Jules. Not the girl I used to know. Strong. Grounded. Whole.
My chest goes thin. The thought isn’t a thought so much as a small, fierce agreement I make with myself.
Before I can stop myself the words slip out, slow and a little slurred.
“If you weren’t sitting so far away, I’d already be making a move. Warming you up. And I wouldn’t care who saw.”
The table jolts. Whistles. Fake gasps. Cara fans herself like she’s about to faint. Riot drumrolls until chips scatter.
But all of it blurs because she’s looking at me, cheeks pink, eyes over the rim, lit like she’s daring me to prove it.
It hits me again, how easy it is to laugh here. Everywhere else, people put me on a pedestal and wait for answers. Here, I get to be Cal. The guy who burned marshmallows under this tree. The guy they never stopped seeing as one of their own.
And Jules isn’t just a part of my past. She’s the most important part of my future.
The noise surges back with bets, threats, and nonsense, but it all feels distant now. Unimportant.
Because I know I’ve crossed a line.
Every part of me wants her. Just her.
“Jules,” I say, soft but clear, “come talk with me for a minute?”
She hesitates just long enough for Cara to whistle before rising to her feet.
My pulse kicks harder than it did on any stage this week.
We step into the cooler dark, the porch swing waiting beneath the willow.
It groans under our weight as we sink into it, plastic cups sweating on the rail. Jules starts talking immediately. Something about oat milk. Something about Cara embarrassing her for the thousandth time.
I try to listen.
I really do.
But all I see is porch light gilding her hair. Her lips shine, sticky-sweet from Mrs. Dorsey’s punch.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That's a lie.”
“Probably.”
She laughs.
I lean closer, voice low. “So tell me, Jules.”
She blinks, laughter caught in her throat. “Tell you what, Cal?”
I grin, heart thudding. “Anything.”
I don’t move. Just watching her lips, the curve of that uninhibited smile. It feels raw, dangerous, impossible to resist.
Her breath hitches. My hand finds hers, the swing rocking slow. She tilts her chin, just a fraction, and it’s all the permission I need. I reach for her.
For a moment, I just look at her.
Our mouths meet. Warm. Unhurried.
Her lips taste like sugar and fruit; her cup slips from the rail and crashes to the boards.
She pulls me closer. The swing wobbles beneath us, wood creaking.
When we break apart, we’re laughing like we’re reckless. The porch light flickers once, and the night holds its breath.
Her eyes are dazed. “You taste like fruit salad,” she whispers.
I grin, voice rough. “Best fruit salad I’ve ever had.”
The words barely leave my mouth before a shadow falls across the porch.
Riot stands there, jaw slack, cup dangling from his hand like he forgot how to hold it.
The swing creaks under us. Jules buries her face against my shoulder, groaning. We laugh at each other.
“Talking, huh?” Riot drawls, looking personally offended.