Chapter 23
Haiyden
She’s quiet for most of the night.
During the rush, I steal a few glances her way. Each time, she’s hunched over her phone, scrolling with that particular kind of focus that isn’t really focus—it’s avoidance. Like she’s using the screen as a shield, something to block out the chaos around her. Maybe even me.
A pang of guilt tugs at me.
I’m the one who told her to come. Pulled her out of whatever routine she was trying to hold on to.
But there’s another quieter, more selfish part of me that’s glad she did.
She’s an anchor.
Even with everything moving too fast, even with Tanner fucking up left and right, just knowing she’s here soothes me.
When the crowd finally starts to thin and the noise dulls, I’m still caught up closing checks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Calla pulling a book from her bag.
She flips it open somewhere in the middle, sliding her bookmark onto the counter with careful fingers.
She shifts her wine glass a few inches away—not far, but enough to make space.
Like she’s settling in. Like she’s planning to stay.
She leans into the book like she’s ready to disappear inside it.
But I know she isn’t reading.
She can’t be, for two reasons:
She’s drunk. Not stumbling or slurring, but I’ve been topping off her wine when she’s not paying attention. I don’t think she’s noticed.
Every time I look at her, she’s already looking at me.
I reach for the bottle again, automatically, but the weight—or lack of it—makes my stomach drop. I hold it up to the light. She’s gone through almost the entire thing.
Shit.
I wasn’t trying to get her hammered. Wasn’t really thinking about it at all. Just kept her glass full, the same way I tell myself I would for anyone else.
But she’s small. And I don’t know how much she normally drinks.
It feels like a line I shouldn’t have crossed.
Setting the bottle down, I grab a glass and fill it with water. I walk over, sliding it across the counter and nudging it into the space between her book and her wine.
She looks up—and the second her eyes meet mine, I know I fucked up.
She might be drunk, but right now, she’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen her.
Color rises in her face, warming her cheeks like she’s been kissed by the sun. Her eyes shine with something I haven’t seen before. Something lighter. Freer. But it’s more than that. She’s unguarded. The walls she always holds up are gone.
And the force of that nearly knocks me flat.
Fucking. Gorgeous.
“Wow, Haiyden! Cutting me off already?”
Her voice lifts with amusement, but the slur at the end gives her away.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I lean against the bar, forcing it down—the heat crawling low in me, every reaction, every instinct. She’s intoxicating like this. Loose. Unfiltered. And I don’t know what the hell to do with it.
I force a grin. “I don’t need you passing out on me,” I say, adding a wink to keep it light.
And then she does it. She laughs.
It crashes over me, sudden, unbidden, loud enough to echo through the quieting bar.
And I’m not fucking ready for it.
Because it’s not just a laugh. It’s her .
Real and raw and alive in a way I’ve never seen before.
Like a crack splitting through stone, letting the light bleed through.
Like shedding a second skin—peeling back the silence, the sadness, the cautious glances she gives when she thinks no one’s watching.
It’s the sound of her breaking open, piece by piece, right in front of me.
And it fucking ruins me.
I brace myself, focus orbiting her like I don’t have a say in it. I glance at Tanner. Scan the room. Anything to pull myself back, to stop from drowning in this feeling I still don’t know how to name.
Only a few stragglers left. Tanner’s fine.
No reason to stay away.
I push forward, resting my elbows on the counter, letting the space between us shrink. When I’m finally close, she wrinkles her nose slightly and sniffs the air. Her brows pinch, just a little.
“You smell sweet.”
The words are blunt—so point-blank I almost laugh. Her voice is oddly serious, like she’s walking a fine line between awareness and whatever’s waiting for her on the other side of all that wine.
“Espresso martini,” I say.
Her eyes flash with something playful before she gasps, pressing a hand to her cheek in mock scandal.
“Ooh,” she drawls, stretching the word out. “Didn’t peg you for an espresso martini guy. Maybe that’s why you didn’t like my wine on Christmas.”
She hiccups on the last word, and—Jesus.
I swallow down a laugh, shaking my head. “First of all,” I say, fighting a grin, “the martinis were spilled on me. We’re in a bar, you know?”
I pause, tilt my head, let the amusement show.
“And second of all, Calla—you’ve been drinking your favorite wine all night.”
Fuck.
Her grin falters. Just for a second.
I try to cover. “I liked it very much—”
Shit.
“Which is why I brought it into the bar in the first place.”
I don’t even know if that’s true. But I know I don’t feel guilty about the lie.
Her cheeks flush, somehow turning even redder than they already were. I didn’t think that was even possible.
I wait, watching as something changes in her. It’s subtle, like watching a door click shut. A soft, slow retreat. Walls stacking back into place, brick by fucking brick.
And I don’t know why, but it makes me want to pull her right back through them.
“You’re full of surprises.”
Her head tilts, that soft, slow smile tugging at her lips.
“What do you mean?”
I watch her carefully, resisting the urge to reach for her. I should let it go. Let her finish her wine. Let her keep laughing.
Let her keep looking at me like that.
But I don’t.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that before.”
She exhales, rolling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, letting the last bit of red swirl lazily against the sides. Then she shrugs. Like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.
“I never have a reason to.”
The words land like a bomb.
I stare at her. The happiness evaporates—sucked out of the moment so fast my stomach lurches. I knew she wasn’t happy. I knew she carried more than she let on.
But fuck. Hearing it out loud? It hurts.
I drop my head into my hands, rubbing at my temples as I blow out a slow breath .
I don’t want to do this now, but I can’t wait any longer.
“We have to talk about this, Calla.”
Her posture locks up immediately–shoulders squared, fingers tightening around the stem of the glass.
“No, we don’t.”
Her voice is flat. Dismissive. But I can feel the resistance beneath it—the same kind she had that first night she sat in front of me, trying to pretend she wasn’t falling apart.
I don’t push.
Instead, I reach for her water glass, refill it, then pick up what’s left of the wine.
Barely half a pour.
I set the water in front of her, roll my own glass between my fingers, twisting the stem, letting the moment of silence breathe between us.
“Listen, Calla.”
I exhale hard.
“You’re drunk, and maybe that’s why I’m doing this now, but I’m only going to say it once.” I pause, pulling in a breath through my nose, slower this time, trying to keep my frustration from coming through. “Please don’t put yourself in danger.”
The change is instant.
She snaps her head up, expression hardening so fast it makes me jerk back.
“I’m fixing it.”
Her voice isn’t slurred this time. Not lazy. Not soft.
It’s sharp. Clipped. Sober.
I hesitate, thrown off balance. For the first time all night, she sounds perfectly clear. Did I misread this? Did I just insult her—assuming she’s too drunk to know what she’s doing?
She leans in, close enough that I feel the heat rolling off her skin, her breath curling into mine.
“I need help.”
Her voice is quiet. Insistent.
And she’s looking at me like I’m the fix. Like I’m the only person who can make this better.
No. No, she’s not doing this.
I pull back slightly. “Calla… no.”
Her shoulders drop in an exaggerated motion—too loose, too unsteady.
A soft hiccup escapes her. I shake my head, trying to gather my fucking thoughts.
“I mean it,” I say, softer this time. “Please stop looking into this.”
Her expression doesn’t change. Neutral. Like she’d already braced for that answer.
“Haiyden, I can’t.” The words are quiet, but unyielding.
I drop my head into my hands, fighting the worry swirling through my chest. I knew this was how it would go but hearing it out loud still sucks.
“I can’t help you,” I say, almost pleading. “And I need you to be safe.”
Her expression flickers before she hiccups again, the sound crackling through the tension.
I sigh. We’re at an impasse. She’s too drunk for this conversation. And I’m too fucked to keep fighting her on it.
I study her again. Her eyes are unfocused now—glassy, distant. Lights on. No one home .
For the first time tonight, I feel like I lost.
She laughs suddenly, loud and unrestrained. The sound startles me, but I can’t help the way my mouth twitches, a smile threatening to surface.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Be careful, Haiyden,” she teases, her voice lifting, just a little uneven. “You’re starting to sound like you actually care about me.”
I do.
The thought slams into me, knocking the air from my chest.
For a second, I want to tell her. Just say it.
But I can’t. Not now. Not like this.
My face heats, and before I can recover, she pushes herself to her feet, gripping the edge of the bar for balance. Using the foot rails on the stool, she adds just enough height to lean forward, her face inching closer to mine, her breath warm against my skin.
Another hiccup slips out, and she laughs at herself before regaining focus.
She sticks out a finger, wagging it with a slow, exaggerated “come here” motion. Her expression is back to playful, vulnerable.
And fuck, if it doesn’t undo something in me.
“Do you want to know a secret?” she slurs. Her words are uneven, but there’s something underneath. Something serious.
I chuckle, shaking my head, indulging her. “Sure, Calla.”