Chapter 10
Haiyden
Once a month, Chase ropes me into this early morning ritual: inventory and deep cleaning.
The bar feels different at this hour. Hollow.
Like it’s holding its breath. The stale tang of old beer clings to the air, sharp against the bite of bleach.
The quiet makes everything louder—the creak of the floorboards, the static hiss of the ancient speakers overhead.
The music filters through, fractured and uneven, like it’s clawing its way out of the speakers. Chase hums along, off-key, too loud, cutting through the stillness without a second thought. That’s him all over: too loud, too careless, too damn reckless.
One day, it’ll catch up to him. I just hope I see it coming when it does.
I crouch behind the bar, wiping down the fridges, lining up bottles, keeping my hands busy, my thoughts quiet. It’s mindless—exactly how I like it. But my focus slips when my eyes drift to the far corner of the room.
The Christmas tree stands crooked, like it’s given up trying to stay upright. Half the ornaments are gone, leaving gaps that make the whole thing look lopsided. Defeated.
Chase told me what happened.
The girl. The fall. The blood.
Other than that, he didn’t give me much. I haven’t pressed. I’m not sure I want to. Even in the little he has said, I can tell she’s already made a mark.
And that, more than anything, makes me uneasy.
I don’t care about the tree. It’s Chase’s problem, not mine. But something about all of this gets under my skin. She’s clearly made an impression, and that alone feels dangerous.
Chase doesn’t do guarded. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think. People love that about him. But I’ve seen what happens when someone takes advantage of it.
And for his sake, I hope he figures it out before it’s too late.
The hours pass. My hands stay busy—wiping, scrubbing, anything to keep the thoughts away. Then, a knock.
Three taps. Barely a sound, but it pierces the quiet all the same. Chase’s head jerks up, a grin spreading. I don’t need to look up. I already know.
She’s here.
When the door opens, the air shifts. Cold light spills in from the street, and everything else blurs around her.
It’s her.
Calla.
She’s different this time. Smaller, pulled inward. Wrapped up in some quiet storm she’s trying to weather alone. Her hair falls loose around her face, her hands full—bags, coffee cups, all clenched too tight.
There’s something fragile about her, like she doesn’t quite belong here.
Like she’s still trying to figure out where she fits.
When her eyes meet mine, time stretches. A beat too long. Her chin lifts subtly, like she’s challenging me to make the next move.
I lean against the counter, eyes still locked on hers, trying to make sense of the shift that just happened.
“Calla.”
Her name tastes raw on my tongue, and I see her flinch as it leaves my lips.
“Hi,” she replies—soft, almost tentative, like she’s testing the waters.
Chase, completely unaware, glances between us, brow furrowing.
“Wait—Haiyden. You two know each other?”
She glances at me again, and I catch something in her expression. Something secret. I keep my face steady, masking the thoughts and memories rolling through me.
“Haiyden,” she whispers.
My name slips from her lips like she’s weighing it. Tasting it. Holding it there.
I push off the counter, irritation bubbling in my chest.
“Office. Now.”
Chase looks confused but follows without a word. He throws Calla a quick, apologetic glance before the door slams shut behind us, the sound ringing through the quiet space.
I’m already on him, my voice low and dangerous as I close the distance .
“No.”
Chase’s smirk is fucking infuriating.
He leans back against the desk, arms crossed, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like none of this matters.
“No what?”
“Whatever this is.” I flick a hand toward the door, my voice clipped. “It stops now.”
His smirk deepens, all easy arrogance.
“Jealous?”
I don’t give him anything.
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s waiting to solve.
“Then why do you care?”
The words sit thick on my tongue. How the hell am I supposed to explain it?
The way her presence knots something in me. How her touch felt like both the anchor and the storm.
Chase shrugs, like this is all just a game to him.
And he’s not done. His voice dips—bratty, mocking.
“I had her first !”
The words hang in the air, baiting. But I don’t bite. Don’t even look at him. I turn toward the door, my voice even when I finally speak.
“No. You didn’t.”
The hallway stretches out, too quiet, an unsettling stillness building with each step.
I don’t need to hear Chase behind me. I can feel him. Before he can even open his mouth, I speak—low enough that only he can hear .
“Not now.”
When we reach the front of the bar, I scan the room. Calla’s bag is slung over the chair to the right of the bar, shopping bags scattered on the floor around it. But she’s nowhere to be seen.
Chase, now behind the bar, sighs, and the sound is loaded with irritation.
When our eyes meet, I catch the looks he throws me. Subtle, but pointed.
“You need to stop acting like an animal,” he says, tone cutting as he fiddles with something on the bar, trying to look casual.
“Lighten up, Haiyden. You’re scaring people away.”
Each word hits like a punch, digging into my chest. The urge to fight back rises like bile. I swallow it down, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You have no fucking right to—”
Before I can finish, the bell above the front door rings.
I turn.
Calla steps inside, cheeks flushed, breath quick. Another coffee cup and a pastry bag dangle from her hand.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, almost apologetically.
“All good,” Chase replies, breezy as ever.
She glances back at me, then back to Chase. Her voice lowers.
“Honestly, I was trying to avoid… whatever that was.”
Chase barks out a laugh, but it doesn’t sit right with me. They’re too friendly. Too familiar. Too comfortable.
My gaze moves back to Calla, and her presence alone hits me like a wave. I feel the wreckage inside me as she moves closer.
Her hands tremble slightly as she offers me the coffee and pastry. It fucks with my head.
“Truce?”
I take them without a word, nodding stiffly before walking toward the barstools. The distance between us doesn’t matter. Her eyes are still on me, burning into the back of my neck.
She’s not satisfied with the little truce I gave her.
But the truth is neither am I.
The image of her with Chase—of them spending the last week together—digs in deep. It plants a seed that keeps growing, blooming into something darker with every passing moment.
Calla turns back toward the table, the faint crinkle of shopping bags breaking the silence between us.
I glance back, watching her unpack. She moves like she’s trying to be quiet. Careful. Invisible. Like the world might shatter if she isn’t.
One by one, she pulls out the ornaments. These aren’t the cheap, forgettable ones already on the tree. They’re unique. Deliberately chosen.
There’s too much thought behind every piece. Too much effort.
It doesn’t feel right.
It feels like she’s trying to fix something broken beyond repair. Like she thinks putting everything back together will somehow seal the cracks. But some things just don’t go back to the way they were. No matter how much you want them to.
Chase sighs from behind the bar, the sound deeper this time—almost annoyed.
Slowly, he walks over. I see the shame in his eyes as he looks at her.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, voice tight .
“Actually, it’s the least she can do.” I can’t stop myself from cutting in. “Considering she’s the one who broke them in the first place.”
Calla scoffs and turns to the tree, studying it from every angle. Her back is to me, but the restlessness between us is palpable.
I turn to Chase, who’s shaking his head in disappointment.
“I have work to do,” he says, tone sharper than usual. He starts to walk away, but not before adding—barely loud enough for me to hear:
“Behave yourself.”
As Chase leaves the room, I turn back to Calla. She’s still focused on the tree, a few ornaments carefully cradled in her gauze-wrapped hands.
She heard what Chase said. I saw the faint flush of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. But it fades quickly, replaced by that quiet focus.
That unrelenting drive to fix what’s broken.
And goddamn, it draws me in. She’s crawled under my skin and made herself at home.
Her hands move with intent, one ornament at a time, each movement intentional. She’s creating something real. Something that matters.
Several minutes pass. She’s made it through half the ornaments, each one placed with a precision most people wouldn’t bother with.
But now, she’s stalled. Her eyes lock on a spot too high to reach, frustration clouding her features as she twists the ornament in her hand.
Without thinking, I push off the barstool and walk toward her.
She doesn’t notice at first, too focused on the tree. But when I step behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body, she freezes.
I tower over her, and without a word, I pluck the ornament from her hand.
Her breath hitches, and I feel it—the way it rattles through her.
“Tell me where.”
She hesitates, her hand lifting slowly, shaking slightly.
She points. “In between those. But a little higher.”
I nod, stretching up to place the ornament exactly where she wants it. My body brushes against hers as I move. And fuck, it’s too much.
I grab another ornament and lean down, my voice low next to her ear.
“And this one?”
Her breath catches.
“Over there,” she says softly. “Just above the last one.”
For the next twenty minutes, she points, I hang. No other words between us—just the quiet, thickening with every passing second.
Every time I lean in, her pulse jumps at the base of her neck. Every time she speaks, it’s softer.
Like she’s holding something back. Like she’s trying not to give in.
When it’s over, the table is empty. We both take a step back, looking at the tree.
“It’s better now,” she says quietly. Almost to herself.
I don’t answer. I don’t look at the tree. I look at her. It is better. Whole again. For the first time in a long time, something feels right.
Almost immediately, she starts gathering her bags.
“I have to go,” she says quietly. “I just wanted to fix what I broke yesterday. Can you let Chase know?”
The mention of his name twists something in my gut, but I keep my voice steady.
“Sure.”
I don’t expect her to turn back as she heads for the door, but she does. Her bright green eyes lock with mine.
“It was nice to finally meet you, Haiyden,” she says softly.
I freeze. The door clicks shut behind her, and the silence it leaves is deafening.
Chase’s voice cuts through it, probing. “You’re being a dick. A bigger one than usual. What the hell is your problem?”
I can’t answer. The words are stuck in my throat.
I grab my jacket and head for the door, my voice flat. “Lock up when you’re done.”
The freezing air fights to clear the haze she left behind, but one unwelcome thought lingers.
She’s not trouble for Chase.
She’s trouble for me.