Chapter 20
Calla
I take a deep breath, standing outside Driftwood with two coffees and a pastry in hand. They feel heavier than they should. Maybe it’s just nerves.
The morning air is freezing. A thin layer of snow coats the sidewalk, already packed down where early risers have already passed through. The air smells like salt and damp wood, the remnants of last night’s frost melting into the pavement.
It’s quiet at this hour. The town is still caught in that in-between haze of night and day. I used to find a strange comfort in it—the empty sidewalks, the stillness. It made it easier to think.
Today, the quiet feels different.
Maybe because I’m here for him. Not Chase. Not a distraction.
For Haiyden.
The thought settles uncomfortably in my chest as I shift the cups and bag into one hand. I knock firmly enough to be heard over the music playing inside.
I wait, shifting my weight from foot to foot, trying to fight the cold.
Nothing.
The music is louder than usual, swelling against the door, the bass thrumming beneath my fingers as I knock again, harder this time.
I glance around the empty street. And still, nothing.
I run my thumb along the edge of one coffee cup, staring at the closed door. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe I should just leave. He clearly didn’t plan for company this morning.
But then I think about everything he’s done for me. The way he dropped everything to help me.
Twice.
The least I can do is bring him a coffee.
Blowing out a breath, I pull out my phone before I can talk myself out of it. He answers almost immediately. The music cuts off mid-note.
“Calla?”
His voice is groggy, like he hasn’t fully woken up yet.
“Hi, um… I’m here,” I manage, suddenly unsure.
A moment later, Haiyden comes into view through the glass, his head tilted down as he watches his steps.
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back in that absentminded way—like he doesn’t realize how effortlessly good he looks when he does it.
But I see it. And the realization sends a bolt of nervous energy straight through me.
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than I expected. The scent of coffee and something fainter, something clean, drifts between us. The morning sun casts soft shadows across his face, and for a moment, his guarded expression isn’t quite so sharp.
The music kicks back on, louder with the door open, filling the air between us. A deep, melancholic voice drifts through the space, the song’s melody slow and aching, woven with a soft guitar.
It’s not what I expected from him—gentle, almost delicate, in a way that makes me hesitate.
Haiyden glances at his phone, rubbing the back of his neck before lowering the volume. The sound fades to a whisper, like he’s suddenly self-conscious.
I’m not sure what to make of all this—the music, his expression. There’s just always something unexpected about Haiyden. Something that never quite lines up with the version I think I know.
I step inside, letting the door close with a soft chime. There’s a hush in the space now, aside from the music and my anxious breathing. I hold out a coffee and the pastry, suddenly feeling awkward.
“Thanks again… for everything,” I say, the words tumbling out. “And for bringing my car back.”
His eyes meet mine, the intensity lingering long enough to make my stomach twist. Before I can stop myself, I start rambling.
“I’m sorry about yesterday, I was just exhausted, and—”
“Calla,” he says, cutting me off gently. “It’s fine.”
His voice is calm, measured—like he’s trying to keep me from spiraling. It should irritate me, but instead, it leaves me unsteady. Like he knows me better than I’m ready for.
I nod, shifting on my feet, still gripping the drinks like a shield.
“I’m just glad you’re safe,” he adds, quieter this time.
The thought settles between us, feeling unfinished. But before I can respond, Haiyden takes the coffee and pastry from my hands. His fingers brush against mine unintentionally, but I let myself feel it anyway.
Without a word, he turns and walks over to the bar, setting everything down.
I stay rooted, watching as he pulls glasses from the dishwasher, stacking them on the counter in uneven rows. He moves with a kind of quiet certainty, each motion fluid and practiced.
His muscles shift beneath his shirt as he works, the fabric pulling tight across his shoulders. Each time he reaches inside, the light catches the lines of his forearms, all sinew and strength.
His brow furrows as he sets the last glass down, like the weight of the task is finally catching up to him. He exhales a slow, stabilizing breath—as if preparing himself for something much bigger than a few stacks of dirty glasses.
When his eyes finally meet mine, amusement flickers across his face, but there’s something softer beneath it.
“Make yourself at home,” he says, voice low, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Rent’s due at the end of the month, by the way. But I’ll knock off a few bucks for the coffee and pastries.”
It’s casual. Light. A simple line, but there’s something unguarded in it. Like the smallest crack forming in the wall he keeps so firmly in place.
The music swells again, louder this time.
I retreat to my usual seat at the low table by the window.
I hadn’t planned to stay—just a quick thank-you and I’d be on my way—but something about this moment makes it hard to leave.
The soft rhythm of water running in the sink.
The quiet clink of glass against the bar.
The hum of music weaving through it all.
There’s a peace in it. A quiet kind of routine that feels safe.
I pull out my phone and scroll aimlessly, barely registering what’s on the screen. The first two songs blur together, just background noise to the movement in front of me.
But then the next one starts—low, aching, almost too tender for the moment—and I glance up.
The flow of his movements holds my attention more than it should. There’s something almost hypnotic about it.
He soaps up two glasses, rinses them under the water, then sets them on a towel to dry. His hands move quickly but carefully, like the motions are second nature.
His dark hair keeps falling onto his face, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s just too focused to care. He uses the back of his wrist to push it away, a casual gesture that somehow feels deliberate.
And I can’t look away.
The tattoo on his neck shifts with him, disappearing and reappearing as he moves—the ink stretching and curving along his skin. He stands over the bar with an easy, unhurried presence, his frame cutting clean lines against his reflection in the mirror behind him.
I shouldn’t be watching him like this. But it’s impossible not to.
He moves like he’s done this a hundred times before. Like the space belongs to him. There’s nothing rushed about him, nothing uncertain. Even in silence, he commands—and maybe that’s what unsettles me the most.
The light catches the scruff along his jawline, and for a moment, I’m acutely aware of how closely I’m watching.
He looks up.
Our eyes meet.
It’s barely a second, but I feel it all the way down to my fingertips.
I swallow hard and drop my gaze, pretending to scroll through my phone again. But my hands are unsteady, my grip is too tight .
When the song finally fades out, I can’t help myself.
I stand and move quietly behind the bar, standing close enough that our elbows might brush if either of us moves.
I tell myself I’m not paying attention—that I don’t notice the almost imperceptible way Haiyden adjusts his posture, the subtle tilt of his body toward mine as I settle in next to him.
When he sets the next pair of glasses on the towel, I reach out and grab one. My movements don’t match his yet, but I mimic what I’ve seen, carefully drying each glass before setting it aside.
He freezes, hands pausing under the running water. The pause drags a second too long, like he’s deciding whether to stop me.
Then his surprise softens into something quieter, and he moves slightly to make room. We fall into a slow rhythm. Unspoken, but easy. Somehow, we move in sync.
I can feel his presence more than ever. And I think he feels me, too. His movements are still precise, but his shoulders aren’t as rigid, his posture not quite as guarded.
He reaches for another glass, and in that motion, his shoulder brushes mine.
Just for a second.
Almost too brief to register.
But warmth spreads through me, and I hold my breath.
He doesn’t pull away. Neither of us does.
For the first time, Haiyden feels real. Not just the broody, distant figure I’ve been trying to piece together in my mind. Not just jagged edges and unreadable looks.
Here, now, in this moment, he’s something else entirely. Grounded. Present. And achingly, impossibly human .
When the last glass is dried and set in its place, he turns to me.
“Thank you, Calla.”
His voice is soft. Surprisingly sincere.
My smile is gentle. I don’t know if it’s the quiet, the closeness, or the way the moment stretches a little too long, but it makes my pulse falter.
Before I can respond, he steps away, disappearing through the door into the back office without another word.
And in that moment, I wonder if he feels it too—the shift in the air we’ve both been too careful to name.