Chapter 9 It’s the Forearm Tattoos for Me
IT’S THE FOREARM TATTOOS FOR ME
IZZY
For the first time in way too long, I wake up feeling... rested.
The thought alone is disorienting. My body has grown so accustomed to dragging itself out of bed with exhaustion already settled deep in my bones that this unfamiliar lightness feels almost suspicious.
My usual morning routine consists of a groggy stumble toward the coffee maker, half-heartedly checking my phone while squinting through sleep-crusted eyes, and mentally preparing myself for the hellscape that is interacting with corporate retail demands.
But today? Today, there's no crushing fatigue. No stress clawing at my chest before my feet even touch the floor. The morning sunlight filters through my curtains, casting a gentle glow across my bedroom that seems almost foreign in its peacefulness.
Just... stillness. Calm.
This never happens.
Frowning, I roll over and grab my phone off the nightstand, already bracing myself for the onslaught of unread emails, missed Slack messages, and some urgent crisis that, despite not being my problem, will somehow become my problem before noon.
Instead, waiting at the top of my notifications, is a message.
Not from Evan. Obviously.
From Caleb.
Good morning, pretty girl. Make sure you eat something today.
I stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen.
I don't respond.
But what he says makes me pause, lingering on those simple words longer than I should.
It's not just what he wrote—it's the fact that someone thought to reach out at all.
I can't remember the last time I woke up to a message that wasn't a work alert, an automated bill reminder, or one of Amanda's unhinged texts demanding to know why I haven't sent her my outfit for pre-approval.
When was the last time someone—real or not—thought to check in on me before I even started my day?
It's stupid how nice it feels, this small acknowledgment of my existence.
I shake my head, tossing my phone onto the bed as I get up, determined not to spiral over a fake boyfriend created by an algorithm.
The morning routine plays out as usual—shower with water hot enough to steam up the mirrors, mascara applied carefully to lashes that never quite hold a curl, hair styled into something that suggests effort without trying too hard.
I spend extra time carefully curating an outfit that says competent professional but not trying too hard to impress anyone—and by force of habit, I grab coffee on my way out the door.
No food.
Not because I don't want to eat, but because my apartment isn't set up for that reality.
The refrigerator contains mostly condiments and takeout containers in various stages of abandonment.
My pantry holds three different kinds of coffee but barely enough ingredients to cobble together a proper meal.
Cooking in the morning would require effort.
Effort requires planning. Planning requires grocery shopping.
And grocery shopping requires acknowledging that food is a necessity, not just a passing suggestion from my neglected digestive system.
So instead, I've trained my body to believe that coffee is a suitable replacement for actual nutrition until at least noon.
Besides, I've been running on caffeine before noon for so long that it barely even registers anymore. My stomach has forgotten how to complain.
By the time I step into the store, heels clicking against the marble floors, I still haven't responded to Caleb.
And I'm definitely not thinking about the fact that I actually went to sleep when he told me to last night, his message appearing at just the right moment to make me set my work aside and actually rest.
Nope.
Not thinking about that at all.
I barely make it three steps down the hall before I run straight into a wall of muscle. The impact knocks me back a step, my coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid of my travel mug. I stumble back, blinking up, already prepared to unleash a world-class glare—
And then I realize the wall of muscle has a name.
Callahan.
Unlike me, he doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t even blink. Just watches me, face locked in that infuriating mask of composure, like he saw this coming three steps ago.
"You okay?"
I clear my throat, trying to shake off the humiliating fact that my entire body just collided with his. "Yeah, no thanks to you."
One brow lifts, just slightly. "I was standing still."
I scowl, adjusting my grip on my coffee. "Well, maybe you should rethink your entire presence, then."
His mouth twitches, but he says nothing, stepping aside to let me pass.
The fabric of his shirt pulls across his shoulders with the movement, revealing just how well it fits him.
Which would be great, except we're heading in the same direction. I bite back an annoyed sigh and follow him into the conference room, where he takes a seat at the long table like he owns the place. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows now, exposing forearms I’d only gotten a glimpse of earlier.
I can see them fully now. The tattoos wind up his skin in intricate designs that disappear beneath rolled cuffs, dark ink against tanned skin.
He should absolutely not be allowed to look this good at eight in the morning.
I make a mental note to include this in the next edition of the employee handbook.
I clear my throat, tearing my eyes away. "You're early."
His eyes lift to mine. "So are you."
I roll my eyes, moving toward my usual seat—only to stop when I see what's waiting for me.
A brown paper bag. A water bottle. Both placed precisely at what is clearly my designated spot.
I narrow my eyes. "What's this?"
"Breakfast."
His voice is so casual, so completely unbothered, like this is just a thing he does. Like bringing food for his coworker is as natural as breathing.
I lift the bag. The paper crinkles beneath my fingers. "What if I already ate?"
He doesn't blink. "You didn't."
I scowl. "You don't know that."
He gestures at my coffee with a nod. "That's not food."
I huff, dropping into my seat, pretending I don't appreciate the fact that he just...did this. That he thought about me before I even arrived. The chair creaks slightly as I settle into it.
I open the bag, the paper rustling loudly in the quiet room, pulling out a breakfast sandwich wrapped in foil, and hesitate before glancing at him. "Did you eat?"
A smirk tugs at his lips. "You worried about me?"
I scowl, though the heat rising to my cheeks betrays me. "Just making sure you're not some hypocrite with a hero complex."
"Yeah, I ate."
"And slept?"
He leans back in his chair. It’s annoying how attractive he looks doing that. "Did you?"
I frown, unwrapping the sandwich. The aroma of melted cheese and warm bread fills the air. "That wasn't the question."
His expression falls slightly, replaced by something more neutral. "I live close," he says, brushing it off.
"That still wasn't the question."
He watches me, like he's debating how much to say. Finally, he exhales, the sound soft in the quiet room. "I don't sleep much. Even when I have the time."
I don't like how familiar that sounds, how his admission echoes my own sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling, mind racing with all the things I should have done differently.
But I don't say that.
"Now you," he says, fixing me with a level stare.
"Now me what?"
"Did you sleep?"
I hesitate, but for some reason, I answer honestly. "I slept fine."
The second the words leave my mouth, my mind flashes back to Caleb's message last night. The one that told me to go to bed, to rest, to take care of myself when no one else seemed concerned whether I did or not.
And worse—the fact that I actually listened.
A slow, creeping warmth spreads up my neck, heating my skin.
Callahan's eyes switch to me, like he notices me blush. "Yeah?"
I take a bite of my sandwich—because, if I'm being honest, I am kind of hungry—and immediately hate how good it is. The flavors burst across my tongue, making me realize just how long it's been since I had a proper breakfast.
Crispy edges, perfectly melted cheese, just the right balance of salt and spice. The sort of breakfast that makes you close your eyes, just to really taste it. My stomach growls appreciatively, demanding more after the first bite reminds it what real food tastes like.
I swallow, already reaching for another bite before I realize what I'm doing. "Where'd you get this?" I ask, because I need to know where this level of perfection comes from.
Cal doesn't even look up from his coffee. "Made it."
I pause mid-chew, the sandwich hovering near my mouth. "You made it?"
He nods, like this is not a deeply shocking revelation. Like making the best damn breakfast sandwich I've ever had is just a thing he does. Casually. Without warning. As if all men know how to cook food that makes you want to groan out loud.
I ignore the deeply unhelpful part of my brain that's pointing out how attractive it is that this man—this ridiculously big, brooding, tattooed man—knows his way around a kitchen. That he took the time to prepare something specifically for me.
Instead, I focus on the sandwich. The perfect ratio of egg to cheese, the way the bread is toasted just right—crisp on the outside but still soft inside.
And how my stomach is currently informing me that I need another one. Immediately. To make up for all the times I've denied it proper sustenance in favor of caffeine and convenience.
Cal finally looks at me, raising an eyebrow as I take another too-eager bite. "Healthier when you cook at home," he says simply, his deep voice matter-of-fact.
I chew slowly, narrowing my eyes at him over the sandwich. "You didn't have to do this."
Something shifts in his expression—a flash of something buried deep, gone before I can catch it. He just shrugs. "Yeah. I did."
His voice is steady. Certain.
Like it's just a fact.