Chapter 29
Calla
I take a cab to Driftwood, the memory of my last visit clinging like a shadow. Just thinking about it stirs the ghost of a hangover, settling in before I step inside.
When the car rolls to a stop, I take a breath and brace myself, letting the cold air cut through me. The bar thrums with energy, its pulse spilling onto the street—thick and electric.
I don’t hesitate before reaching for the door and stepping into the heat of it.
The bar looks different tonight—shimmering, celebratory. I don’t know who took the time to decorate, but it feels like something Chase would do. Then again, after the past few days with Haiyden, I’m starting to think anything is possible.
The usual melody of indie and alternative has been swapped for a bass-heavy beat that vibrates the floor. The air is alive with cheers, clinking glasses, and something else I can’t quite name.
Whatever it is, it’s getting to me too.
Things are changing .
The crowd is thick, but I find Haiyden immediately. My body stills, drawn to the sight of him behind the bar. Every movement is effortless. He still carries that same brooding energy, the same Haiyden I’ve always known. But tonight, something about him is lighter. Looser.
His biceps flex as he reaches for a bottle, his forearms taut with each motion. Even from here, I can see the sharp play of muscle—the tension and release. A shadow of a smile tugs at his lips before vanishing just as quickly.
He’s focused. Taking orders, clearing glasses, closing checks. But I can’t look away.
And then his eyes snap up, locking onto mine like he could feel me watching.
The almost-smile disappears, replaced by something darker. His gaze doesn’t just land on me—it travels. Slow. Intentional. Pinning me in place.
He looks at me like he’s already touching me, and suddenly the little black dress I almost second-guessed doesn’t feel like a mistake.
It feels like a challenge.
The noise of the bar dulls, everything stretching into a single breath—a wire pulled so tight it might snap. My pulse kicks up, erratic.
And then my feet are moving, closing the space between us before I’ve fully registered the decision.
I slide into a seat at the bar, my eyes never leaving him. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t break stride, but there’s a force to his movements now. His hands work methodically—pouring, shaking, straining—like he’s using the task to keep himself in check.
I could watch him for hours.
God, he looks so good it hurts .
“You’re busy tonight,” I say, raising my voice just enough to cut through the noise.
“Not too busy for you.”
His response is effortless, punctuated by a quick, playful wink.
My stomach flips.
He sets down the shakers, leaning in slightly, crooking a finger to wordlessly beckon me closer. I meet him halfway, and the teasing edge in his expression fades into something softer.
“You look beautiful, Calla.”
Heat flares beneath my skin. The bar feels smaller now, warmer—like the energy around us is starting to spark.
“Thank you,” I murmur, ducking my head slightly. The smile creeping onto my lips is impossible to fight. “I wasn’t sure if—”
“Don’t overthink it,” he cuts in, like he already knows where my thoughts are headed. After a pause, he lifts his chin in consideration. “Champagne?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Sure, as long as some asshole doesn’t over-serve me again.”
He exhales roughly, shaking his head as he turns away. I catch the faintest tug at the corner of his lips in the mirror behind the bar—just before the pop of the cork splits the air.
The glass is in front of me within seconds, but before I can say anything else—
“Haiyden!”
Tanner’s voice slices through whatever this moment was, filled with frustration. I glance over to find him drowning in orders, irritation pulling at his features as he gestures toward the growing line of customers .
Haiyden nods, stepping away—but not before Tanner throws a pointed look my way.
“Someone’s got their priorities all over the place tonight.”
“Watch it, Tanner,” Haiyden warns.
I should be annoyed. But the way Haiyden brushes it off so easily keeps me from thinking too much about it.
Instead, I take slow, measured sips of my champagne.
Pacing myself.
I don’t need another repeat of last time.
For the next thirty minutes, I settle in and watch him work. He moves with precision and control, but I catch the way his eyes find me—when I move, when I speak, when someone comes a little too close.
He tries to hide it, but it’s there. Coiled just beneath the surface. The clench of his jaw. The slight flex of his fingers around a glass or shaker.
I thought sitting here while he worked would make me feel out of place, like I didn’t belong. But it’s the opposite.
It’s magnetic.
He looks good—maybe not happy, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him truly happy—but focused. There’s something about the quiet confidence he moves with, the way the chaos around him doesn’t touch him, that makes him devastatingly attractive.
And with the way he keeps looking at me, I know I’m not the only one feeling it.
Just as I finish my drink and start to relax, something solid presses against the back of my chair.
A body .
I stiffen, instinctively shifting forward. But before I can get comfortable, another man stumbles into the space between me and the next seat, his movements clumsy.
At first, I think he’s just trying to get closer to the bar.
But then his eyes land on me.
And stay there.
A slow grin spreads across his face, all confidence and assumption, like he’s already decided how this interaction is going to go. He leans in, his breath thick with liquor, the sour warmth of it curling in the air between us.
“A pretty girl like you alone on New Year’s?” His voice is smooth. Practiced. “That’s a tragedy.”
I tense, but force a polite smile, unwilling to make a scene. “Just enjoying the night.”
I glance down at my glass—only to remember it’s empty.
Damn it.
He doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he shifts even closer, his arm brushing against mine. His heat is cloying—sticky with alcohol and unwanted attention.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks, tilting his head like he already knows the answer.
The question catches me off guard. I pause for half a beat too long, but it’s enough. “No, but—”
His arm suddenly snakes around my shoulder, reeling me in like we’re old friends.
My entire body locks up just as his voice drops, too close to my ear.
“Then let me introduce myself…” he says, fingers squeezing my bare shoulder. “… as your new boyfriend. Don’t worry—I’ll let everyone know you’re off the market.”
I flinch, instinctively leaning away. But his grip tightens. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make it clear he isn’t letting go just yet.
A quick glance around tells me no one’s paying attention. The bar is a blur of noise, laughter, movement. The crowd sways and shifts, too wrapped up in their own celebrations to notice this small moment where everything feels like it’s falling apart.
I try to shake him off subtly, turning slightly, shifting my weight.
“I’m really not interes—”
Glass shatters behind the bar.
The sound barely registers before a fist flies past me, connecting hard with the man’s face.
The impact is sickening—bone crunching, a wet crack, a pained gasp. Blood splatters instantly, dark against his skin. He stumbles back, catching himself on the edge of a stool, one hand cupping his ruined nose.
The room freezes.
Music still pounds. Voices still rise and fall. But there’s a split second where the air turns razor-sharp—poised on the edge of something dangerous.
I think I’m going to be sick.
My wide eyes follow the bloodied fist back to its owner.
“Haiyden!”
My voice breaks, somewhere between a gasp and a scolding breath.
But he doesn’t acknowledge me.
His chest heaves, fists still clenched at his sides. His focus stays locked on the man, on the way he staggers, dazed and swearing under his breath.
Haiyden radiates something lethal. Something barely restrained. Like the only thing holding him back is me.
“I think she’s good without the company,” he says, voice low and threatening.
The man mumbles something, but I don’t hear it.
I’m too caught up in the way Haiyden looks at me now—his eyes burning with something dark.
Something that makes my pulse climb.
Before I can process it, he’s moving.
His fingers curl around my wrist, grip unrelenting as he pulls me from my seat and leads me toward the back hallway. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look back. His touch is firm and possessive, like he can’t stand to let go.
The noise of the bar fades behind us. Tension weaves between us like something tangible, something that crackles and burns.
Heat coils low in my stomach, anticipation licking at the edges of every thought.
And the moment we step inside the office, everything changes.
The door slams shut behind us, sealing us in silence. The air is charged, thick with unspoken words and something far more dangerous.
Haiyden releases me, stepping toward the center of the room before turning back. His eyes are storm-dark, his chest rising and falling with barely contained energy—like he’s fighting something violent.
Something primal.
Like he’s fighting me .
“What the fuck were you thinking,” he growls, voice raw, “letting him put his hands on you?”
I blink, thrown by the accusation. Heat flares through me—and not the good kind.
“What the hell is your problem?” My shock hardens into something sharp. “I didn’t let him do anything.”
“You’re my problem, Calla.”
His voice drops, rough with restraint.
“The fact that I’ve been wondering since day one what those stupid pastries would taste like if I licked them off your lips? That’s a problem.”
Step.
“The fact that I can still smell your shampoo on my pillow? That’s a problem.”
Step.
“The fact that I think about you—naked, wet, in my shower— every day ? That’s a problem.”
Step.
“Another man’s hands on you? That’s my fucking problem.”
Step.