Chapter 25
Haiyden
She’s sick.
I knew it the second I saw her. Paler than I’ve ever seen her. A light sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. Barely holding herself together. The urgency in her voice when she asked for the bathroom. The way her steps sped up as soon as she thought no one was watching.
Guilt coils tight in my chest. This is my fault. I just had to keep pouring.
I push off the couch and head down the hallway.
When I reach the bathroom, I stop, leaning back against the wall. Arms crossed. A slow exhale. I tilt my head up toward the ceiling—right as the sound of her retching breaks the silence.
The reminder of my mistake hits like a punch.
I start to pace, the soft creak of my footsteps the only sound in the quiet hallway. She’s probably heard me by now. I don’t care.
I don’t know what’s worse—knowing I did this to her or knowing she’s in there alone.
The knot in my chest pulls tighter. Privacy isn’t a choice anymore .
Damn it.
I step up to the door and knock, light at first.
“Calla…” My voice is even. Controlled. “You okay?”
Nothing. No movement. No breath. Like she vanished.
My pulse kicks up. I knock again, firmer this time, forcing my tone to stay casual.
“You don’t have to say anything, but just…” I pause, jaw tight. Say something, Calla. “I need to know you’re all right.”
Almost immediately, her small, weak voice filters through the door.
“I’m fine.”
It’s a lie. We both know it. She doesn’t even sound like the woman who walked into my living room five minutes ago.
I press my palms into the door frame, leaning in until my forehead rests against the wood.
“Calla, let me in.”
A pause. A long one. Long enough I start to think she won’t answer at all.
Then, finally—so fragile I barely hear it:
“I’m fine, Haiyden.”
I bristle but swallow the snap rising in my throat. She’s already vulnerable. Pushing won’t help.
“No,” I say, softer now. “You’re not.”
A heavy sigh drags from me as I roll my forehead against the door, frustration creeping in. Why does she have to make everything so damn hard?
I soften my tone again. “I’m not going to judge you. Some asshole overserved you. This isn’t your fault. Just… let me help.”
Silence.
This could go on forever. But she needs a shower. Food. Rest.
She needs someone to take care of her.
I’m about to say something else when I hear the soft click of the lock. I hadn’t even realized it was locked.
The thought of her—sick, maybe passed out, alone behind a locked door because I over-poured—hits harder than I expect.
“Can I come in?”
Radio silence.
I hesitate. Just for a second.
“Okay… I’m coming in.”
I step forward slowly, unsure of what I’ll find. The door creaks open, inch by inch.
And everything inside me stills.
Calla’s curled up on the bathroom floor, knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Her cheek rests on her knees, head turned, eyes locked on mine. Glossy. Distant.
She slowly lifts her head and leans back against the wall, gaze drifting to the ceiling like she can’t bear to look at me.
Her arms fall to her sides, and that’s when I see it.
The stain on her shirt.
Fuck.
Her eyes flick to mine, just for a second, before darting away. She knows I saw.
Her cheeks flush. Her shoulders shrink.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, barely audible.
She’s mortified. And something in me shatters, watching her fold in on herself over something that isn’t her fault .
I step forward slowly, crouching to her level.
“Come on,” I say softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. For a second, I’m afraid she’s stopped breathing altogether.
I know she wants to do this herself—fix it, hide it, pretend none of it happened. But I can’t leave her like this.
I slide my arms under hers and lift her gently to her feet. She doesn’t fight me. Her head tips forward, hair falling around her face like a curtain.
I keep one hand on her forearm, holding her, then lean past the shower curtain and twist the knob. The water roars to life. Steam rises around us, curling into the air.
I watch her, waiting for the tension to ease from her shoulders.
It doesn’t.
It never does.
After a few seconds, I lift my thumb to her chin, tilting her face up. Her skin is warm beneath my touch. I brush her hair back, tucking it behind her ear.
“Calla,” I murmur, voice low. “It’s okay.”
She looks at me, and there’s a storm behind her eyes—uncertainty, exhaustion, and something else I can’t quite name.
“Arms up,” I say gently, giving her the chance to pull away. To say no.
She doesn’t. She just watches me. Eyes locked on mine. Silent, but open.
She’s giving me this.
Carefully, I guide her left arm through the sleeve, then the right. When I pull the fabric over her head, I stretch the neckline as wide as I can, making sure the stain doesn’t touch her skin.
Pale, soft skin catching the bathroom light. She’s delicate in a way that feels undeniably real.
Not fragile. Just real.
My hands stay firm. Controlled. But inside, I’m spiraling.
I can’t fuck this up.
She mumbles something under her breath—too quiet to catch. I lean in.
“What?”
She swallows, then asks again, clearer this time.
“Who is she?”
The question knocks me off balance.
I furrow my brow. “Who is who?”
Her glassy eyes search mine, still alert despite the haze of exhaustion.
“The girl,” she says. “On your bookshelf.”
A wave of nausea rolls through me. For a second, I think I might be the next one sprawled across the bathroom floor.
Of all the things she could’ve brought up right now, this is the last I expected. Instinct tells me to brush it off, deflect. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at me—like she deserves the truth.
I swallow hard.
“My sister,” I say finally, voice low.
She doesn’t respond.
I shift the focus, lowering to my knees in front of her.
My fingers move to the waistband of her jeans—undoing the button, slipping beneath the fabric. Her skin is warm beneath my hand. Warmer than I expected. Careful. Measured. Burning.
I tug gently, peeling the denim down inch by inch, revealing the smooth line of her thighs, the soft curve of her hips.
It’s a slow, torturous unveiling.
She trusts me too much, and it’s messing with my head.
When her jeans pool at her ankles, I lift her left foot, guiding it free, then do the same with the right.
I look up.
There’s heat in her gaze—subtle, but unmistakable. And for a second, it feels like she’s seeing straight through me. Seeing every single way I’m falling apart right now.
She’s beautiful. Achingly so.
I push to my feet, dragging in a slow breath, trying to reel myself back in.
“The butterfly… and the crane.”
I freeze. My pulse trips.
“What about them?” I ask, my voice rough.
“You made them?”
I nod, stiffly. My throat tightens. “Yeah.”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s pulling me apart piece by piece.
“Why?”
My jaw tics. “It’s just… something I learned a long time ago.”
Her gaze dips. She sways slightly. Exhaustion is pulling her under.
I inhale slowly. Stay focused, Haiyden.
“Turn around, Calla,” I say—giving her one last chance to stop this.
She hesitates, just for a second, before she obeys, turning her back to me.
With slow, careful movements, I reach up and unhook her bra. The fabric slips down, pooling on the floor with a quiet thud.
She tenses. Sucks in a breath.
I see it in the curve of her spine—the vulnerability. I almost think she’s going to shut down completely.
But instead, she turns to face me.
My eyes trace her, taking her in.
Soft, full curves waiting to be touched, traced, memorized by hands like mine. Her nipples are tight from the cool air, flushed a deep pink that makes my pulse stutter.
My jaw locks. My hands twitch at my sides, aching to move. The sight knocks the breath from my lungs—a heady mix of want and restraint.
Even now, there’s strength in the way she holds herself. Resilience wrapped in softness. The delicate slope of her collarbone. The faint rise and fall of her chest.
My eyes drop lower, catching the contrast of black lace against bare skin.
It’s devastating. Feminine and utterly wrecking.
Something about it pushes me right to the edge of my control.
“Take them off, Calla.”
My voice is strained, every muscle in my body wound too damn tight.
I keep my eyes locked on hers. But I see it—the subtle change as the last barrier falls away.
And I’ve never seen anything more perfect.
I allow myself one glance—one intentional drag of my eyes over her. The curves. The pale stretch of skin. The small tuft of hair now visible where the lace once was.
“Fucking beautiful,” I whisper.
The words slip out before I can stop them. I curse myself immediately, snapping my gaze back to her face.
I want to touch her. Pull her close. But it’s not about me.
I step forward and cup her face, my palm brushing over smooth skin. She leans into the touch, just slightly, but enough to make something in my chest tighten.
Her wide eyes search mine, open. Without thinking, I lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead. It’s all I can give her right now. Something to show her she’s safe with me.
“Take a shower,” I say, stepping back but keeping my eyes on her. “I’ll grab you some clothes.”
I don’t wait for a response. If I do, I might not leave.
I step out, closing the door gently behind me. The sound of the shower curtain sliding rings out, followed by a change in the water’s rhythm. She’s in.
I exhale, leaning back against the wall, dragging a hand down my face. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s sick, and I stripped her naked. What kind of person does that?
But then… it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about me. It was her.
There’s something about Calla that pulls me in, that makes me feel responsible. Protective.
The line between wanting to take care of her and just wanting her is razor-thin, and it scares me how fast I’m losing my footing.
I push off the wall, forcing my body to move. To do anything else.
I head to Chase’s bathroom and rummage for an extra toothbrush and some toothpaste.
Momentum.
Back in my room, I dig through the drawers, looking for something small enough to fit her. An old pair of sweatpants. A t-shirt that’s too small. It’ll still hang off her, but at least it’ll be comfortable.
I pause, eyes drifting to the bed. The sheets are twisted, proof of her restless sleep.
I step closer. The faintest trace of lavender still lingers there. My pulse kicks up, and I hate how much I’m already looking forward to lying there tonight, where she’s been.
Shaking my head, I grab the half-full glass of water from the nightstand, knowing she won’t be back for it.
I pour the rest into the ZZ plant’s pot, my fingers brushing over the leaves.
Willow would laugh at me for this. I can almost hear her voice, teasing.
“Look at you, getting all domestic and shit.”
A faint smile tugs at my lips as I look to the photo on the bookshelf.
Calla got it right, somehow. The plant does feel like a lifeline—a quiet connection to something brighter. Something good.
But that connection is exactly why I built my walls so high. I can’t afford to lose again.
And with Calla, the cracks are already forming.
It fucking terrifies me.