Calla
The first pale threads of dawn slip through the linen curtains, painting golden stripes across the wooden floor.
I stretch beneath the quilted coverlet, muscles pleasantly sore, warmth radiating from every inch of my skin.
The cottage feels wrapped in morning magic—soft light, the distant chirping of early birds, the lingering scent of rosemary and something uniquely Brakkor clinging to the sheets.
My hand reaches across the mattress, seeking the solid warmth of his body.
Empty space greets my fingertips.
I blink fully awake, propping myself up on one elbow. Brakkor sits on the edge of the bed, his back to me, pulling on his worn leather boots. His shoulders carry a tension that wasn't there last night, rigid lines replacing the relaxed curve I fell asleep against.
"What's wrong?"
He doesn't turn around. His fingers work the laces with mechanical efficiency, each movement deliberate and distant.
"Nothing's wrong. I must get back to the inn."
The words land flat, stripped of any warmth or recognition of what passed between us. No trace of the man who whispered my name like a prayer, who held me like I mattered.
I sit up fully, the coverlet pooling around my waist. Cool air hits my bare shoulders, raising goosebumps along my arms.
"Brakkor."
"I want to get an early start on following up with Selwyn." He stands, reaching for his shirt where it lies crumpled on the floor. "There's a lot of ground to cover today."
His voice maintains that same monotone quality—professional, detached, completely void of the intimacy we shared last night. He could be discussing supply chain logistics with a stranger.
"Look at me."
He freezes for a moment, shirt halfway over his head, then continues dressing without acknowledging my request. The fabric settles across his broad shoulders, hiding the scratch marks my nails left along his back.
"This is about work." The statement comes out more controlled than I feel. "The investigation."
"Everything's about work." He tucks the shirt into his trousers, hands moving with practiced efficiency. "That's why we're here."
The casual dismissal is a slap to the face. I watch him transform before my eyes—the man who touched me with reverent hands becoming the distant journalist who challenged my authority that first day. Walls slam back into place with devastating speed.
"Right. Of course."
He reaches for his jacket, shrugging it over his shoulders. The gesture feels final somehow, like armor sliding into place. When he turns toward the hallway, his profile reveals nothing—no softness, no acknowledgment, no trace of the vulnerability he showed me in the darkness.
"I'll see you at the office."
The words carry no inflection, no promise of anything beyond professional obligation. He walks down the narrow hallway without looking back, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The front door opens and closes with a soft click that echoes through the cottage like a gunshot.
I remain sitting in bed, the coverlet clutched against my chest, staring at the empty doorway. The morning light continues streaming through the windows, but the magic has drained from it entirely. What felt warm and golden moments ago now seems harsh, exposing every shadow and flaw in the room.
The silence stretches, broken only by the distant sound of his footsteps fading down the cobblestone path.
My chest feels hollow, carved out by the casual efficiency of his departure. No explanation, no acknowledgment of what happened, no indication that it meant anything beyond physical release. Just the cold reality of morning and the return to professional boundaries.
I won't chase him. Won't demand explanations or beg for reassurance. If Brakkor Vane wants to pretend last night never happened, that's his choice to make.
But the ache settling behind my ribs suggests it won't be that simple to forget.
The brass bell above the Golden Crust's door chimes with unusual force as I stumble through the entrance, nearly an hour past my usual arrival time. The familiar scents of cinnamon and rising dough should comfort me, but everything feels off-kilter this morning.
Maddie glances up from behind the counter, flour dusting her apron, and her welcoming smile falters the moment she sees my face.
"Cal? You look like you've been trampled by a herd of pixies."
Liora sits at the corner table, her silver hair braided with tiny glass vials that catch the morning light.
Steam rises from her herbal tea, carrying the sharp scent of peppermint and something medicinal.
Both women study me with a kind of concerned attention that makes my carefully constructed composure crumble.
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"Absolute rubbish." Maddie wipes her hands on her apron and circles the counter. "Liora, look at her. What do you see?"
The apothecary's keen eyes sweep over me, cataloguing details like symptoms. "Tension in the shoulders, shadows under the eyes, and that particular brand of misery that comes from emotional upheaval rather than physical exhaustion."
"Exactly." Maddie guides me to a chair opposite Liora. "Sit. Talk. I'll bring tea."
"I don't need—"
"You're sitting." Liora's voice carries the authority of someone who's spent decades reading people's ailments. "And you're going to tell us what's wrong."
Maddie returns with a steaming mug of chamomile, setting it before me with gentle firmness. The warmth seeps through the ceramic into my palms, grounding me in the present moment.
"It's Brakkor."
"Ah." Liora nods knowingly. "The brooding orc with the tragic backstory."
"We've been working closely on this article. Really closely. And last night..." I pause, staring into the pale tea. "We slept together."
Maddie's eyes widen. "Cal! You didn't mention you were interested in—"
"I wasn't. I mean, I didn't plan it. It just happened." The words tumble out faster now, like a dam breaking. "And it was... significant. At least, it felt significant to me. But this morning he couldn't get out of the cottage fast enough."
"Classic tortured soul behavior," Liora observes, swirling her own tea thoughtfully. "Men like him carry their past like armor. The moment they feel something real, they retreat."
Maddie settles into the third chair, leaning forward with eager sympathy. "He's probably terrified that he actually felt something. You saw through all his walls, and now he's panicking."
"Or maybe he really doesn't care." I take a sip of tea, letting the warmth chase away the hollow feeling in my chest. "Maybe it meant nothing to him, and I'm reading significance into something that was just... physical."
"Unlikely," Liora says. "I've seen him watching you around town. That's not indifference."
"Then why run?"
"Because caring about someone makes you vulnerable," Maddie explains gently. "And vulnerability is terrifying for people who've been hurt."
I shake my head, setting the mug down with more force than necessary. "Or he's exactly who he appeared to be this morning—someone who took what he wanted and moved on. Either way, I should just get back to work."
"Nonsense," Maddie says firmly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "You're one of the strongest women I know, Cal. Keep your chin up. He'll come around once he stops running scared."
"I'm not waiting for him to come around." The words emerge sharper than intended, carrying more conviction than I actually feel. "I have a newspaper to run and responsibilities that matter more than whatever emotional crisis he's having."
Liora raises an eyebrow at my tone. "That sounds suspiciously like someone trying to convince herself."
"It sounds like someone who has priorities.
" I drain the rest of my tea and stand, smoothing my skirts with deliberate precision.
"The Harvest Festival is in three weeks.
I need to coordinate coverage, finalize the vendor announcements, and make sure we have enough distribution for the festival edition. "
"Cal—"
I gather my composure around me like armor, piece by piece. "Whether Brakkor chooses to participate professionally or sulk like a wounded bear is entirely up to him."
Maddie exchanges a meaningful glance with Liora. "You're deflecting."
"I'm prioritizing. There's a difference." I move toward the door, then pause with my hand on the brass handle.
"Cal." Maddie's voice carries gentle insistence. "You don't have to pretend this doesn't hurt."
"It doesn't hurt because I'm not letting it." The lie comes easily, practiced from years of maintaining editorial control over every aspect of my life. "I have a paper to publish."
Liora's knowing smile suggests she sees right through the facade, but she mercifully says nothing.
"I'll see you later." I push through the door, the morning air crisp against my flushed cheeks. The brass bell chimes behind me, a cheerful sound that contrasts sharply with the hollow ache I'm determinedly ignoring.
The cobblestone path stretches ahead, leading back toward the newspaper office and the comfortable familiarity of work. I have deadlines to meet, articles to edit, and a festival to coordinate. Brakkor Vane can nurse his wounds elsewhere.
I refuse to chase after a man who runs from connection like it might burn him.