Chapter 24
Calla
My head is pounding.
I roll over and press my face deeper into the pillow, trying to block out the light—too bright, too much, even with my eyes still shut. I refuse to open them yet, because already, this day feels like something unbearable.
I breathe in slowly.
Citrus. Sage.
For a second, I wonder if I’m imagining it. But it’s so distinct, so undeniably him. I take another breath, a little deeper this time, and the ache behind my temple eases. Just a little.
The room is colder than I’m used to—a deep, aching chill that holds no matter how tightly I curl into the blankets. I pull them higher, tucking the edge under my chin, trying to wring out every last bit of warmth.
If I could just sleep for another hour—just outlast the hangover—maybe I could face the day without feeling like I’ve been steamrolled.
But my stomach twists with nausea, sickly and unforgiving .
So much for that.
With a groan, I roll onto my back and crack my eyes open. Light floods in, mighty and unforgiving.
And then it hits me.
This isn’t my room.
The realization crashes over me like a bucket of ice water. I sit up too fast, my stomach lurching in protest, and the room spins.
Anxiety prickles under my skin in a slow, suffocating crawl. Where the hell am I?
I press my hands to my face as flashes of last night filter in, scattered and out of order.
The bar. The wine. The walk home.
Haiyden.
A groan slips out as the pieces start clicking into place. I didn’t think I was drinking that much. Or at least, I hadn’t meant to.
My stomach churns, not just from the hangover, but from the embarrassment crawling through my chest.
I care about you.
The words slam into me. I groan again, louder this time, and squeeze my eyes shut. What was I thinking?
And worse—I don’t even remember everything. There are gaps. Fuzzy patches where my boldness outpaced my better judgment.
I exhale and twist in the sheets, and Haiyden’s scent wraps around me—faint and familiar, like his arms around me on the walk home.
When I finally push myself up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, I grimace at the feel of denim.
Jeans.
I slept in jeans .
Rubbing my temples, I force myself to take in my surroundings. The walls are crisp and white, empty, but intentional. More blank slate than afterthought. Across the room, a dresser sits against the wall, nearly bare except for a small catchall tray and—my phone.
A relieved breath escapes me. At least I have that.
To my right, something catches my eye. A splash of color against the neutral tones. The ZZ plant in the yellow pot.
A small, tired smile pulls at my lips. Its leaves are glossy, its soil still damp. He’s been taking care of it.
I can’t explain the warmth that blooms in my chest, but it’s there. A quiet breath of light. A small ray of sunshine in his life, just like I hoped it would be.
I shift, pushing up onto my hands, sitting cross-legged and taking in the rest of the room.
To my left, a bookshelf draws my eyes. It’s mostly bare, unassuming—aside from a few scattered items.
On the lowest shelf, a small stack of paperbacks sits tucked to their side. Their spines are creased, worn. The titles aren’t immediately visible, but when I lean forward, something clicks. A few of the classics. The kinds of stories that stick around, that shape the people who read them.
My lips curve into a grin. I never would’ve pictured Haiyden as the type to keep books like these.
They’re stacked unevenly, like they’ve been pulled down and shoved back without much thought. No real care for order. It’s an endearing kind of chaos.
My gaze drifts to the top shelf, barely within view from where I’m sitting, but probably eye level for Haiyden .
There’s a small cluster of objects. Not decorations, exactly, but things that feel intentional. Like they mean something.
Squinting past the dull throb behind my eyes, I make out two pieces of origami: a pastel pink butterfly and a deep green crane. They’re angled just so, positioned with care. Dust gathers around them, undisturbed—like no one’s touched that shelf in months.
Next to the origami, leaning against the back of the shelf, is a photo. It’s unframed, propped up casually, the edges slightly bent, like it’s been handled a hundred times.
Two kids stare back at me, their faces lit up with wide, carefree smiles. A boy and a girl, both in bathing suits, popsicles in hand, their hair dripping wet as a sprinkler sprays behind them.
I stop breathing. The nausea shifts, morphing into something heavier.
It takes me a second to recognize him.
But when I do, everything inside me goes still.
Haiyden.
My fingers twist in the sheets. It doesn’t seem possible.
I’ve never seen him like this—unrestrained, untouched by everything he carries now.
But if I close my eyes and try to imagine what he would look like happy, truly happy, this is it.
The softness in his face, the openness in his expression.
And despite the years, he hasn’t changed much.
His features are unmistakable, just harder now, more guarded.
My gaze shifts to the girl beside him, and a chill slides down my spine. She looks just like him. Same dark eyes. Same sharp features.
They could be twins.
And just like that, the realization settles over me: I know nothing about this man .
Not really. Not the parts that matter. I’ve only ever seen what he’s chosen to show me, the fragments he allows to slip through the cracks. Everything else is locked up tight, sealed behind doors I don’t even know how to knock on.
His room alone is proof of that.
I suddenly feel like an intruder, sitting here in his space, staring at a piece of his life that he hasn’t offered to me.
My head pounds in protest, and my mouth is bone dry.
Water. I need water.
I push myself up from the bed, but the second I’m upright, the room tilts violently. Nausea surges. Panic follows close behind. I stumble toward the dresser, snatch my phone in one hand, and shove the door open with the other.
The door slams open into the stopper, the sound splitting the silence.
I freeze, listening, but the air is still. Haiyden is probably still asleep.
Not wanting to risk waking him, I flick on my phone’s flashlight. The beam cuts across the walls, the floor creaking beneath me as I step into the hallway. My pulse thrums in my ears, amplifying the dizziness.
Finally, my fingers find a switch. I flip it, and light floods the space.
The moment it does, Haiyden bolts upright from the couch.
“Calla?” His voice is thick with sleep but edged with concern.
I open my mouth to respond—but then I see him.
Shirtless.
I don’t mean to stare, but my eyes betray me, dragging over the lean, defined lines of his torso.
He isn’t overly muscular—just strong in a way that feels effortless.
Broad shoulders taper down to a frame built more from work than vanity.
I expect more ink, something sprawling to match the tattoo on his neck, but there’s nothing.
Just smooth, bare skin and a faint dusting of chest hair rising and falling with each breath.
I blink, frozen in place, unwilling to let the image slip away.
“Are you okay?”
The nausea slams into me, harder this time, tearing me out of the trance.
“Bathroom?” I manage, barely holding it together.
Haiyden sits forward, pointing. “Down the hall.”
As much as I want to stay, to memorize the sleep-rough rasp in his voice, the way he’s looking at me like he cares , my stomach twists violently.
I turn without another word, stumbling toward the hallway.
By the time I reach it, I’m running.