Chapter 16 Did We Just Trauma Bond?
DID WE JUST TRAUMA BOND?
IZZY
Cal's hand is on the small of my back. The pressure is light but firm, a silent claim that nobody in the room could possibly miss. His palm radiates warmth through the thin fabric of my blouse. He tells Evan and Monroe that he needs to steal me away.
Steal.
Like I'm something valuable.
Something worth taking.
Something that belongs somewhere else—with someone else.
He leads me away from them, his stride measured, unhurried. Not rushing me, not pulling me, just guiding with a quiet confidence that seems as natural to him as breathing.
Like he's giving them a moment to absorb it.
To let them see that I'm leaving with him.
To let Evan understand exactly what he's done.
I hate that I notice how his touch burns through the material, hate that I'm hyperaware of every square inch where his skin meets mine through the fabric.
Hate that it makes my spine tingle, that it makes me feel safe even as I feel completely humiliated at what just happened.
The conflict of emotions is almost dizzying—embarrassment from the scene with Evan and Monroe warring with the strange comfort of Cal's protective presence.
The soft tapping of my heels against the floor feels too loud in my ears as we walk, the murmur of conversation fading behind us. His steps are deliberate, his posture rigid but controlled, his presence beside me a solid wall between me and everything else.
The door to the VIP area closes behind us with a soft click that somehow echoes in my ears, and something in me cracks.
Not enough to show. Not yet. But enough that I already feel the tears burning behind my eyes, the pressure building in my chest, my throat tightening with the effort of holding it all in.
The air in the hallway feels suddenly too thin, too warm, not enough to fill my lungs properly.
We walk back to my office in complete silence. The hallway seems longer than usual, the carpet absorbing the sound of our footsteps, the air thick with words neither of us is saying.
I keep my head down, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, on maintaining the illusion of composure for just a little longer.
My hair falls forward, creating a curtain between me and the world, between me and him.
The familiar scent of my shampoo—coconut and vanilla—surrounds me, offering a small comfort as I try to keep myself together.
My pulse is hammering, my throat thick, heavy with unshed tears. Evan has never done something like that before. He's crossed lines before, but not like this.
He's been cruel, sure. Dismissive. Manipulative.
His comments about my body, my weight, my clothes—they've always been delivered with a smile, with a kiss on the cheek, with that tone that says he's just trying to help.
Just trying to make me better. Always private, always wrapped in enough care to make me doubt whether I was overreacting.
But never that public. Never that brazen. Never humiliated me in front of people—at my own job—like I was some project he was working on. Like he was so proud of himself for getting me 'fixed.' Like I was a before-and-after advertisement for his exceptional taste and guidance.
I clench my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms, trying to hold myself together through sheer force of will. The pain cuts through the chaos—it’s something I can control. The crescent marks in my skin tether me here, keep me from slipping under.
Don't cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of Cal.
I feel Callahan's presence beside me, his body heat radiating even though we're not touching anymore. His energy always feels so big, like he’s so completely in control.
He takes up space not just physically—though God knows his frame is imposing enough—but with something else, something intangible, something that makes the air around him feel charged.
The exact opposite of how I feel right now—small, diminished, shattered into pieces I'm desperately trying to hold together.
We reach my office, and I push inside without waiting, moving to my desk with quick steps, desperate for space. My eyes catch on the stack of inventory reports I'd been analyzing before Monroe's visit.
I automatically straighten the papers, a habit from years of organizing data to make sense of a chaotic world.
Even now, with my emotions threatening to spill over, my hands move with practiced precision, aligning edges, smoothing corners, creating order where I can because everything else feels so out of control.
The rustling of the papers fills the silence, giving me something to focus on besides the man standing behind me.
"I'm fine," I say, not that he asked. My voice is flat, empty, mechanical.
The words come out rehearsed because they are—how many times have I said them before?
How many times have I pretended to be okay when I wasn't? The phrase is worn smooth from overuse, a pebble I've carried in my pocket for years.
I don't look at him.
I can't.
If I do, I might break apart completely.
"Thanks," I add, still keeping my head down, blinking hard to force back the tears that threaten to spill over. My vision blurs at the edges, the colors of my spreadsheets running together. "But I need to get back to work."
I wait, hands still resting on the papers, body tense. The ticking of the clock on the wall marks each second, unnaturally loud in my quiet office.
I wait for the sound of him leaving. For the door to open and click shut. For the moment when I can finally let go, when I can stop holding myself together so tightly.
Finally, I hear the door close behind him.
Relief starts to bloom—until I hear the lock turn.
The sound is deliberate. Unmistakable. Metal sliding into place with a finality that makes my breath catch. My heart skips, stutters, then races to catch up.
He's not leaving. He’s staying. On purpose. And suddenly, everything I’ve been holding back starts to shake loose.
The dam breaks. Just like that.
Tears spill over, hot and unrelenting, sliding down my cheeks before I can stop them. I try. God, I try. But it's useless now. The pressure’s too much.
Callahan is still there—standing against the door, arms crossed over his chest, silent and solid and so completely unmovable. The solid oak frames him like some kind of sentry, his presence towering, steady, and impossible to ignore.
He watches me, but not the way most people do—curious, cautious, or pretending not to look at all. No. He watches like he knows. Like he’s already mapped the fracture line running through me and is just waiting for the moment I finally come apart.
I turn away, pressing my fingers to my eyes, as if that’ll somehow stop the flood. As if I can still claw back some kind of dignity. But the tears wet my fingers instantly, smudging what little makeup I put on.
I was always called a crybaby growing up.
My brothers teased me for it relentlessly—Matteo with his eyerolls, Luca telling me to suck it up, Nico awkwardly patting my shoulder like he couldn’t wait to escape.
My mom said I needed thicker skin. That the world wouldn’t be kind to a girl who wore her heart so openly.
Their voices echo in my head now, reminding me of every reason I should have kept it together.
And Evan?
Evan says I cry too much. That it's manipulative. That it's exhausting to deal with. That I'm using tears to get my way when I don't have a real argument. That no one wants to be around a woman who can't control her emotions.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe I'm pathetic.
Maybe that's why he thinks I need fixing.
And still—here I am. Unraveling in front of Cal. The last person I wanted to see me like this.
And he’s not even looking away.
I sniff hard, trying to hold myself together, wiping frantically at the tears that keep coming despite my best efforts.
But then I feel his presence behind me, closer now though I didn't hear him move.
He's like that—capable of such stillness, such quiet, despite his size.
The air shifts as he approaches, carrying his scent, his warmth.
And then, softly, "You did nothing wrong."
I let out a shaky breath, my hands still covering my face, my shoulders hunched as if trying to make myself smaller, less visible.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fresh tears leaking through despite my efforts. The warmth of them tracks down my cheeks, dripping onto my collar.
Because I know that. Intellectually, rationally, I know that.
But hearing him say it? Hearing him sound so sure?
It makes my chest ache with a strange mix of relief and pain.
Relief that someone else sees it, that I'm not crazy for feeling hurt.
Pain because acknowledging what happened means facing truths I've been avoiding for too long.
It means admitting that this relationship isn't what I'd convinced myself it was.
I scrub at my cheeks, wiping at the tears as fast as they come, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I'm fine."
I'm not fine.
And I think he knows it.
But I say it anyway.
Because I have to.
Because it's what I always say.
Because if I pretend hard enough, maybe it'll be true. Maybe I can convince myself as easily as I've been trying to convince everyone else.
His voice is quiet but firm. "They're assholes. Both of them. Men who think they can do whatever they want and never have to answer for it."
I turn to him, eyes still wet, cheeks flushed with emotion, voice still shaky with the effort of controlling it, and say, "One of those assholes is my boyfriend."
His expression doesn't change right away.
But I see it—the moment of recognition. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly, like he's disappointed but not surprised. The subtle shift in his posture speaks volumes.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, quiet and composed. "You deserve better."