Chapter 22
by heart
Callie was midway between sleep and waking when the vision revealed itself—not with force, but with a pressing weight that pushed a half-formed dream from her mind. No sound this time. No bright flare. Just pressure.
A purple glow surrounded the figures, but she couldn’t make out the edges.
She saw Jess.
Not mid-fight. Not at Callie’s side. But afterward.
Jess’s body was hunched, blood streaking her temple and hands, her jaw clenched against what looked like agony. Her arms dangled uselessly at her sides. Once black and regal, the cloak was torn, hanging crookedly from one shoulder.
Someone was supporting her, but Callie couldn’t see who. An arm locked around Jess’s waist like a claim.
Jess winced—then lifted her head, locking livid eyes with someone just out of view.
The image fractured like a mirror, splintering into sharp pieces.
Callie snapped awake.
She sat bolt upright in bed. The room was dim, quiet. Her staff glowed faintly at her side, a soft, warning pulse. Her throat felt scraped raw. She rubbed at her chest, as if the vision had left a bruise beneath her skin.
Jess hadn’t been standing strong.
She had been surviving—barely. And not alone.
Callie’s fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.
“I should’ve been there,” she whispered.
Not beside her in bed. Beside her in the moment that mattered.
By the time Callie pulled into the library parking lot, her entire body ached with fatigue—and with the effort of pretending she wanted to be there.
“Let’s take a little break,” she muttered, mocking herself in the rearview mirror. “Could’ve cuddled all night. Could’ve let her have her way with me. But noooo. I needed time to process. Brilliant choice.”
She hadn’t been at her desk thirty seconds before Janice pounced.
Callie’s hand hovered over her sternum, like she could press the vision back down where it belonged.
“Well, well, well,” Janice crooned, flipping her lanyard over her shoulder like a badge of authority. “If it isn’t the glowing goddess of post-carnal bliss. Look at you—walking like your hips signed a non-disclosure agreement.”
Callie blinked. “Jesus, Janice.”
“Oh, please.” Janice grinned, all teeth. “Don’t play innocent. You’ve been moon-eyed over Ms. Hockey Mom since she asked for that protein bar book. I like this new look. Very, I made her breakfast and then begged her to ruin me again.”
Callie covered her face with one hand. “I hate that you’re not wrong.”
“Of course I’m not wrong.” Janice leaned in, lowering her voice. “So…is she as intense in bed as she is when she’s staring down the Dewey Decimal System?”
Callie opened her mouth. Closed it again.
Then, to her own horror, she whispered, “More.”
“Outstanding,” Janice chirped—and then glanced over Callie’s shoulder.
Callie turned slowly.
Marta stood there, poised like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.
“Oh no,” Callie said quietly. “Please don’t.”
“Did I hear someone got Dewey?” Marta asked, sweet as a knife.
“Had her appetite whetted,” Janice supplied cheerfully as Callie sank into her chair.
“And the new cologne,” Marta added, leaning in to sniff Callie’s shoulder. “Bergamot with a top note of sin? Deluge of Spring, maybe.”
Callie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The last thing she dared do was admit how much fun she was having.
“Nah,” Janice said dismissively. “Rain-drenched petals. Trembling orchid. That’s Sploosh No. 5 for sure.”
3:42 PM — Jess:
Okay.
You still alive over there?
Callie stared at the screen, her pulse skidding.
She absolutely was not prepared.
3:42 PM — Callie:
Define alive.
Also, I’m shelving atlases and thinking about your collarbones, so—no.
A photo arrived.
It was Jess, wearing Callie’s T-shirt.
Soft cotton. Familiar. Stretched just enough to suggest the body beneath without giving anything away. The hem was caught and tugged between her breasts—not by accident, not by urgency, but by choice. Her hands were nowhere in frame.
That somehow made it worse.
Nothing graphic.
Everything implied.
The neckline dipped low enough to reveal the hollow at her throat—the place Callie already knew with her mouth. The fabric clung as if it were still warm from Jess's skin, then cooled again, like Jess had been standing somewhere drafty, letting the chill do some of the work for her.
It was domestic.
It was intimate.
It was devastating.
Jess looked soft. Not the Raven armored in intent. Not the woman braced for impact. But someone comfortable enough to borrow a shirt and let it mean something. Someone who knew exactly what she was doing—and trusted Callie to understand the difference.
Callie gasped; the sound caught halfway in her chest.
Because she had been caught.
She’d been here before. She knew this place.
By heart.
Not by memory alone, but by instinct—by the way her breath stuttered before she realized it had, by the warmth that spread low and familiar, by the quiet certainty that this wasn’t fantasy anymore. This was ground she’d already walked barefoot. This was home she hadn’t known she was allowed to claim.
And it hit her then—clean and undeniable.
Jess hadn’t said the words yet.
Callie smiled softly, the expression lingering backward through months and forward into whatever came next.
“This is how she says them.”
Not loudly.
Not safely.
With trust. With choice. With her guard down.
It landed everywhere—in Callie’s chest, her gut, the place that still remembered the weight of Jess’s body and the steadiness of her hands.
This was love, translated into touch and fabric and restraint.
And Callie understood it perfectly.