Chapter 34
Calla
Haiyden brought me home late last night.
Part of me wishes he hadn’t.
Falling asleep curled into him, waking up with his arms still around me—it’s a routine that’s become too easy.
But I get it. Chase just got back, and I respect their space enough to give them time to settle in without me always being there. Still, I miss him. I wouldn’t have admitted it before, but I feel it now, deep in my bones.
I sleep later than usual, but getting out of bed feels effortless. My body moves on instinct, bare feet padding to the coffee maker, hands finding their way through a routine that’s finally starting to feel like mine again.
Everything feels lighter. Easier than it has in a long time.
In the shower, I work shampoo through my hair, then smooth on a mask to soak while I exfoliate and shave, covering every inch of skin. When I’m done, I rinse everything away and lather up again—washing off the last traces of Haiyden, knowing I’ll wear him again soon .
Wrapped up in a towel, I move through my skincare, blend in makeup, blow-dry my hair into soft waves.
It’s not about him. It’s just that with him, it feels easy… to feel beautiful.
To feel wanted.
To want to be me again.
Stepping into my bedroom, I catch the low-hanging sun filtering through the window. The afternoon’s already slipped away, and if I keep staying over at Haiyden’s so late, my sleep schedule’s going to be completely shot.
I dig through my closet and pull out loose, comfortable jeans, a bra that’s supportive but not restrictive, and a fitted black turtleneck. When I turn toward the mirror, my gaze snags on the pile of hoodies draped over my desk chair.
Without thinking, I walk over and grab the first one from the stack—a dark green that swallows me whole, both in size and in the lingering scent of him.
I take a slow breath, and the memory surfaces.
“Gorgeous,” he’d said simply.
I’d looked at him, caught off guard, a small smile just starting to form as he clarified:
“Your eyes.”
I pull on the hoodie, and the warmth settles over me, his words curling around my ribs.
I’m seeing him today.
That thought alone is enough.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and open my messages.
Me: Hey, are you home or still working ?
I set my phone down, already moving before the idea fully forms. I open the fridge, scanning the shelves—and feel a rush of gratitude for Tuesday’s Calla. The one who placed that grocery order while Haiyden was over.
Lettuce, tomato, cucumber, artichoke hearts, Kalamata olives. All the staples for my favorite salad.
Excitement flutters in my chest as I dart to the pantry, searching for pasta and canned tomatoes. Relief washes over me when I find them. I start pulling everything out, lining it all up on the counter, ready to be packed into a bag.
It’s not extravagant, but it’s familiar.
There’s something deliberate in the way I choose each ingredient. Like they’re meaningful.
Like sharing a small part of myself without needing to say it out loud.
But his reply doesn’t come right away.
Doubt creeps in, tugging at the edges of my excitement. Maybe this is too much. Too soon. Maybe he wouldn’t even want me to cook for him.
It was supposed to be a thoughtful gesture, but now all I can think about is whether I’m overstepping.
Then my phone vibrates.
Haiyden: Just got home. Come over, pretty girl.
Within minutes, I’m out the door, tote bag from the local gift shop slung over my shoulder, filled with ingredients for tonight’s dinner.
Thirty minutes later, I’m knocking gently at Haiyden’s door, nerves still clinging to the edges of my confidence. But the second it swings open and his lips crash into mine, every doubt disappears .
He pulls me inside without breaking the kiss, backing me up against the wall—a perfect mirror of the night he brought me home.
The bag slips from my shoulder, landing with a heavy thud. My arms wrap around him instinctively, fingers gripping at his shirt, already lost in the way he feels, the way he—
“God, you two are gross.”
Chase’s voice, though playful, douses the moment like a bucket of ice water.
I tear myself away from Haiyden, whipping around to see Chase standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, shaking with laughter.
“Maybe warn a guy,” he adds, smirking. “I almost walked in blind.”
I clear my throat, fighting the heat creeping up my neck. “Sorry, Chase,” I mutter, glancing at Haiyden before shifting my gaze back to him. “I didn’t know you were home.”
Haiyden’s lips twist with amusement, a shrug rolling off his shoulders, while Chase throws up his hands in exaggerated innocence.
“I’m out of here soon anyway, so you two can finish”—he waves his hands in a vague, swirling motion—”whatever that was, in like… five minutes.”
Haiyden exhales a quiet laugh, rubbing his jaw. “Generous.”
Chase grins. “Yeah, well, I try to be a good friend. Apparently a pretty good wingman too.”
I blow out a long breath, letting sarcasm lace my words. “Anyway,” I say, scooping the bag off the floor. “I’m cooking tonight.”
I press the bag into Haiyden’s arms and head for the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder. “You saved my life, what, twice now? Feels like you probably deserve it.”
My tone is light, teasing. But the memories come in flashes—
Haiyden wrapping me in his coat.
Cooking me breakfast.
Making sure I was okay.
I don’t let people take care of me. I handle my own shit. But with him, it feels… natural.
At first, he hesitates, like he doesn’t know how to respond. Something unreadable crosses his face, and my heart sinks. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I’m pushing too much—making this into something it shouldn’t be.
But then he exhales, shifting his weight.
“Calla, you really didn’t have to do this.”
His voice is quieter now, like he’s not used to this—someone doing something for him .
He turns to the bag, starts unpacking it, setting the ingredients on the counter with careful hands.
“But thank you.”
My heart flips at that. An unexpected little somersault.
I take a deep breath and peel off Haiyden’s sweatshirt, laying it carefully over the back of his kitchen chair.
He quirks an eyebrow, his lip twitching. “Oh, it’s that kind of dinner?” He pauses before laughing. “You know Chase hasn’t left yet, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
His smirk deepens, but I ignore it, rolling up my sleeves. “Where’s your cutting board?”
He points to the cabinet next to the stove, and I crouch down to grab it. I hear his footsteps as he leaves the room, and a moment later, he’s back—fresh bottle of wine in hand.
The same red I brought to Christmas.
Reaching past me, he grabs two wine glasses and uncorks the bottle while I rummage through his cabinets for pots and pans. I settle on a pot just big enough for a box of pasta and a small, circular pan—almost identical to the one I use at home.
I coat the pan in olive oil just as Haiyden moves behind me, his hands suddenly gripping my ass in a rough squeeze.
I startle, the bottle tilting too far in my hand—oil spilling in a wild, unmeasured stream.
I huff out a breath, setting the bottle down and screwing the cap back on with exaggerated calm before turning to him. He’s grinning.
“If the sauce is too oily, it’s your fault.”
He leans in, breath warm against my ear.
“Yes, Chef.”
He spins me around, pinning me against the counter, and his lips claim mine. Heat stirs low in me, twisting tighter, and for a second, dinner is the last thing on my mind.
I’m just about ready to forget my entire plan when I hear a loud, theatrical gasp from the hallway.
“Oh my God, my virgin eyes !” Chase shrieks, mock horrified.
I shove Haiyden away—maybe a little harder than necessary—and turn back to the stove, taking a deep breath.
Focus, Calla. You came here to cook. Control yourself.
I hear Chase’s laugh behind me. “I’m out. See ya!”
I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, finally starting to relax .
“Hey, Calla?”
I turn, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. “Yeah?”
“Whatever this is, I’m happy if you guys are.”
He says it casually, like it’s nothing—like he didn’t just breathe life into the very thing Haiyden and I have been avoiding: what this is.
Still, my heart softens a little, grateful for his words.
Then he adds, “As long as it doesn’t happen on my couch!”
The door slams shut behind him, but his laughter echoes down the hallway.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “I hate him.”
Haiyden chuckles, low. “He does it because he knows you won’t push back.”
I glance at him, arching a brow. “Well, aren’t you supposed to defend my honor or something?”
His smirk is slow. “Don’t I?”
He does, doesn’t he? In all the ways that matter.
I shake off the nerves creeping in, pushing Chase’s words to the back of my mind. No need to overthink this now.
Turning back to the stove, I set my phone on the counter, letting music spill into the space between us, joining the soft scrape of my knife against the cutting board.
Haiyden leans against the counter, his attention quiet but constant. He raises his glass occasionally, sipping slow, watching.
I can’t tell if he’s focused on me, the meal, or something else entirely.
After a long stretch of silence, he finally speaks.
“What’s on the five-star menu tonight, Calla?”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “Surprise. ”
He lifts his wine glass, leaning against the counter. “I’m just trying to prepare myself. You’ve been very focused. Which is very… distracting.”
I huff a laugh, returning to the garlic. “You’re the one hovering. Maybe if you weren’t watching me like I’m being judged on national TV, I could actually focus.”
He raises an eyebrow, setting his wine glass down. “You want my help?”
I keep my tone light, adjusting my grip on the knife. “I want you to stop distracting me.”
His smile turns suspicious.
He steps closer, his presence loading my senses. Slowly, he places both hands on either side of my hips, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep me still. He keeps them there for a moment, then drags them lower—teasing, deliberate, heading toward my center.
“Define distracting,” he whispers, voice playful.
Heat crawls through me now, my pulse kicking up.
Earth to my vagina: Get. It. Together.
I square my shoulders, tilt my head just enough to shoot him a look. “Can’t you just sit there and look pretty while I make you a nice, home-cooked meal?”
He chuckles—slow, smug, clearly pleased with himself—and it sets something off inside me.
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead and steps back.
“Yes, Chef.”
I let the garlic simmer in the pan for a few minutes before adding the chopped tomatoes, trying to keep the oil from popping too much.
The smell wraps around me—garlic mellowing in the pan, tomatoes bubbling into something warm and tangy. It smells like comfort. Like home, when I had one that felt like this.
But something feels off.
Haiyden sits at a stool at the counter, watching me, but there’s a sudden stiffness in the way he holds himself, his shoulders locking up like he’s bracing for impact.
The first splatter of hot oil lands on the stove.
A second later, another pops.
He tenses. Every muscle in his body goes rigid.
I quickly reach to lower the heat, but before I can, the scrape of wood cuts through the room like a scream.
I turn just in time to see him shove the stool back, standing so abruptly it knocks against the wall.
I freeze.
His jaw tightens. His throat works a swallow.
His eyes are hard. Unreadable. And avoiding me. They’re fixated on the stove. Narrowed. He’s somewhere else entirely.
“Haiyden?” My voice softens. Cautious. “What’s wrong?”
No answer.
He moves toward the stove, his steps clipped—controlled in a way that feels unnatural for him.
He reaches past me and shuts off the burner with a quick flick of his wrist.
“Stop.” His voice is rough. Barely a whisper. “Please.”
I step closer, my fingers curling into the fabric of my sleeves. “Haiyden, talk to me.”
But it’s too late. I recognize the look in his eyes now. The wall’s already up .
His expression has gone completely blank—the same way it did that first night at the bar, when I touched his tattoo. When I told him I was looking for answers. When I got too close to something he wasn’t ready to touch.
I don’t know what’s happening, but I know this much:
He’s gone.
His movements turn harsh now—unthinking.
He grabs his keys from the counter and strides to the front door without looking back.
“Get in the car,” he says, voice tight. Almost pained.
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
“Car,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less commanding.
Fear flares at the edges of my chest. Not of him —but of this. Of whatever’s unraveling in him. Of whatever he won’t say. Of whatever I’m not allowed to see.
“Haiyden…” I try again, my voice breaking slightly. “Please, just sit down.”
His jaw clenches.
“Please, Calla.”
His voice is different now. Cold. Distant. A sharp contrast to the warmth he’s given me these past few days.
I swallow hard, everything inside me screaming to push back—to demand answers.
But before I can, he’s already reaching for the door. Already guiding me out.
And I let him.
Even though I don’t understand.
Even though I’m not sure I want to.