Chapter 21
Calla
The next morning, I show up at Driftwood again.
I tell myself it’s just a habit. That it’s easier than finding somewhere new. That I don’t owe anyone an explanation for where I spend my mornings.
But I know that’s not the whole truth.
There’s something about being here—about him—that makes me feel something.
I was getting comfortable with the idea of not coming back, of putting some distance between myself and this place.
But I can’t seem to stay away.
I pause at the door, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. I shake the nerves from my limbs and knock, louder this time, like I’m trying to drown out the feeling twisting inside me.
The door swings open almost immediately.
His breathing is a little too fast, his chest rising and falling like he was already in motion before he reached the door. Like he was expecting me .
He doesn’t smile. And there’s something different in his eyes.
“Morning,” he says, voice even. I don’t miss the way he swallows after, like the word didn’t sit quite right in his throat.
Still, we fall into our usual rhythm.
He moves behind the counter, his motions a little too harsh as he grabs a rag and starts wiping down the bar, even though it doesn’t need it. I settle into my usual chair, pulling a book from my bag. Not because I actually plan to read it, but because I need something to hold between us.
The quiet is easy.
And then it isn’t.
I should be working. That’s what I tell myself as I stare at the pages. But I can’t. The holidays, Jules, my job—it’s all slipping through my fingers, and I can’t seem to catch any of it.
How am I supposed to write about self-care when I can’t even keep myself from falling apart?
I press my thumb to the inside of the book’s spine, the paper cool and smooth beneath my touch. But my thoughts drift somewhere else.
To the other night.
To him.
He was there, and in a way I didn’t expect. Not just physically, but in a way that made me feel like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just some passing moment in his life, but something more.
I breathe slowly, dragging my fingers along the edges of the pages, trying to convince myself it’s just the stress of… everything. That this feeling—this unexplainable pull in my chest whenever he’s near—is just a desperate grasp for something stable.
But as Haiyden moves back into my view, I feel it again .
His movements have changed, though. There’s something frantic about them now—his hands brushing against things a little too hard, his shoulders a little too tense.
He’s always been controlled, but there’s a restlessness to him now.
I glance up, watching the way he tightens his grip on a glass just slightly before setting it down, the way his fingers flex against the towel like his hands need something to do.
I look back down at my book, but I can’t focus. I can feel every movement, every breath. It’s like the space between us has shrunk, like I’ve moved closer without realizing it.
Why does it feel like I can feel him in my own body?
Haiyden suddenly drops into the chair across from me, the legs screeching against the floor.
“Sorry.” His voice is rough, like he’s already regretting speaking.
His fingers tap against his thigh, then drift up to the back of his neck—a restless movement that draws my eyes to his hands.
His hands.
The same hands that had been wrapped around my throat. Fingers pressing. Testing. Holding me there.
The memory flashes through me like a live wire. The heat of his palms. The slow squeeze. The breath caught in my throat even as I tilted my chin up for more.
I feel it again now, even from across the table.
I shift in my seat, pressing my thighs together.
“Calla.”
His voice barely pulls me back, my body already betraying me.
I look up at him, barely able to meet his eyes. But when I do, there’s something that wasn’t there before—hesitation, uncertainty, guilt.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out quiet.
He leans forward, fingers pressing against the tabletop like he needs something solid beneath them.
“I… I didn’t mean to push you. The other night.”
He looks away, then back at me, like he’s forcing himself to stay present. His voice is steady, but his hands say otherwise.
I stare at him, confused.
Does he think I didn’t want it?
I can feel it now—his body flush against mine, the way he kissed me like he couldn’t stop, like he didn’t want to. His tongue dragging against mine, slow at first, teasing before he tightened his grip and took what he wanted.
What I let him take.
The tears had dried, but I couldn’t ignore the growing wetness between my thighs. The undeniable, unmistakable ache of wanting.
It’s what I would’ve let him take, if he hadn’t stopped.
Would he have let me fall apart in his hands?
Or would he have taken me apart himself?
Would he have pushed me into the seat, climbed over me, his massive body holding me down and pinning me beneath him?
Or pulled me through the passenger door, my back against the cold metal of the car’s frame, my legs wrapped around his waist as he buried himself inside me, right there on the side of the road?
Would he have been gentle, slow, savoring every inch of me?
Or would he have torn me apart, his hands gripping, mouth claiming, fucking into me like he was trying to brand me from the inside out ?
Would it have been lust?
Or something deeper, something neither of us is willing to name?
“No, Haiyden,” I whisper. “I wanted it.”
For a second, I think I’ve made a mistake.
But then he looks at me.
He leans back—not in retreat, but like he’s letting the truth settle between us. Like he’s letting himself believe it.
I look at him for longer than I should, feeling the weight of everything we haven’t said.
My fingers curl against my thigh. I’m fighting the urge to reach out, to close the space between us.
Because the moment I do, everything changes. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
Haiyden exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. The movement is slow, almost like he’s trying to pull himself out of whatever we just stepped into.
“I need to grab something to eat before my shift,” he says, voice quieter now.
It’s not abrupt. Not a door slamming shut.
Just a careful, intentional step away.
I nod automatically, gathering my things, even though I can still feel him lingering in the space we left behind.
As I start toward the door, his voice stops me. Quieter this time, like he’s trying to find the right words.
“Calla, I…” He hesitates, exhaling slowly. “I’ll be on nights, starting tomorrow. There won’t be anyone here in the morning until Chase gets back.”
I turn to face him, my pulse kicking up. There’s something careful in the way he says it. Like he’s testing the weight of it before handing it to me. Like it’s not just information—it’s a decision.
An invitation. Or a warning.
Maybe both.
“You should come in tomorrow night.”
His eyes lock with mine. The words aren’t casual. They aren’t tossed out without meaning.
Everything is still.
The idea of coming back should be simple. It’s just a few hours at Driftwood. Just another shift.
But it’s not.
It feels like stepping forward and stepping off a ledge, all at once.
I nod, though I don’t trust the word that’s about to leave my mouth.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay.” He nods.
His eyes stay on me, searching, like he’s waiting for something else. But nothing comes.
I force myself to turn, to reach for the door, but the second I pull it open, the cold air slams into me like a reality check. I step out anyway, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m leaving something behind.
Something that, for better or for worse, is already waiting for me to come back.