Chapter 42
Calla
I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep when I hear the knocking—loud and uneven, like whoever’s on the other side of the door can barely stand.
I freeze, breath caught, my mind scrambling for answers.
Who the hell would even be knocking this late?
I reach for my phone, remembering too late that it fell off the bed earlier. As I lean down to grab it, another knock sounds. Softer this time, but insistent.
My pulse kicks up as I finally turn my screen over.
2:13 a.m.
I should be afraid.
For a second, my mind betrays me—whispering something impossible.
Jules.
I picture her standing outside my door just like she used to—hair a wild mess, bare feet on the welcome mat. Showing up announced like it never mattered. Like she’d always be there .
The hope that surges through me is cruel. I hate it. I hate the way my chest opens with something that almost feels like relief… before reality crushes it.
She’s not out there.
She never will be.
The knocking stops suddenly.
Whoever it is, they’re leaving.
I push my blankets back, curiosity pulling me toward the door, my steps slow and cautious. Somehow, I feel both too early and too late.
Part of me is praying it’s Haiyden.
The other part is praying it’s not.
Because he can’t just disappear like that. He can’t drag me out to the middle of the woods, tear my world apart, tell me how much he’s suffering—then vanish.
This isn’t a game. This isn’t cat and mouse.
This is my life—and he’s making it a hell of a lot more confusing than it already is.
I shift to my toes, peering through the peephole—
—and my heart sinks.
It is Haiyden. But what I’m looking at isn’t his face. All I can make out is the crown of his head, dark hair falling forward, shadowing everything. His shoulders are hunched. His posture wrecked. Like he’s carrying the weight of something unbearable.
For a second, I think he’s not going to look up at all. Maybe he’s just standing there—not waiting for me, but for something else.
Something I can’t give him.
But slowly, he lifts his head, and my heart shatters.
I’ve seen Haiyden unreadable. Composed. Void of expression. But this isn’t blank. It’s destroyed.
The pain in his eyes is raw—an open wound—and it twists something deep inside me.
I don’t know what will come from opening the door. I don’t know what he’ll say, if he’ll say anything at all.
But I can’t leave him standing out there like this. I don’t know how long he’s already been here. I don’t know how long he’d stay if I didn’t move first.
And if I’m being honest—no matter how mad I am, no matter how much hurt I still carry—I want to let him in.
My fingers twist around the doorknob. The soft click of the latch releasing sounds unnervingly loud in the quiet. I ease the door open—just a little at first. But when he lifts his head fully, I stop breathing.
He doesn’t speak. Just stares at me.
Through me.
“Haiyden?” I whisper.
His eyes are glassy, unfocused. Red-rimmed with each slow blink, like even that small movement hurts. He’s completely still, but there’s a subtle sway to his body, like the ground beneath him isn’t as solid as it should be.
Seconds stretch between us, long and aching. I wait for him to speak. I start to wonder if maybe he can’t.
“Can I come in?”
His voice is rough, hoarse—like these are the first words he’s said in days.
I grip the door frame as the smell of his breath nearly knocks me back.
Alcohol clings to him—acrid and sour, thick in the air between us. It’s not the lingering scent of a few drinks. It’s days of it, soaked into his clothes, his skin.
He smells like he’s been camped out at the bar since I last saw him.
Not as a bartender. As a patron.
The thought barely forms before an image slams into me—Haiyden, slumped over the desk at the bar. But not in the way I’ve seen him before. Not guarded. Not composed.
This version of him is destroyed. Empty. Head bowed. Fingers curled tight around a bottle, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
I blink it away, but the image doesn’t fade. It morphs.
He’s in his bedroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across his face. He stands at the bookshelf, shoulders tight, gaze locked on the photo of him and Willow as kids.
Not moving. Just staring.
I swallow hard, forcing myself back into the present.
Haiyden is still standing in front of me, swaying just slightly, his lips parted like he’s caught between words.
I nod, slow and small, and step aside.
We both move carefully, like the wrong step might send us crashing through the fragile safety between us. The door clicks shut behind him. He heads straight for the couch and collapses onto it, barely in control.
His body sinks into the cushions. My eyes graze over him—his clothes, wrinkled and damp at the collar. His hands, trembling where they brace against his knees.
Then, past him—to the couch, the coffee table. And for the first time in days, I really see my apartment .
It looks like a war zone.
Clothes piled haphazardly on the floor, draped over chair arms. Empty mugs and water glasses clutter the coffee table, all remnants of failed attempts at self-care. A blanket sits bunched in the corner of the couch, untouched, like I tried to sleep there but couldn’t bring myself to stay.
The sight of it all sends a fresh wave of exhaustion through me.
The mess, the neglect—it mirrors the wreckage inside me more than I want to admit.
I drag a hand through my hair, wincing as greasy strands stick to my fingers. It’s been days. The realization sends a slow flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck.
I tried to pull myself out of this. Tried to snap out of the haze.
But I was stuck.
I shift awkwardly on my feet, rocking forward onto my toes, then back on my heels—a subtle attempt to ease the tightness building in my legs. But it does nothing to quiet the anxiety whirling in my chest.
I’m waiting for Haiyden to say something.
Anything.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even seem to notice me fidgeting. Doesn’t acknowledge the quiet stretching between us.
It’s heavier than usual, weighted with unspoken words—but somehow, it’s almost… comforting. Like having him here, just here , puts something back in place that’s been missing.
After several quiet minutes, Haiyden’s eyes shift.
They move over me—slow, deliberate, intense—and the change is so sudden it nearly knocks me off balance. And not because I’m still standing on unsteady legs .
Without warning, he stands. Too fast.
His body wavers as he pushes himself up, and I instinctively reach out—but he catches himself before I can.
His hand moves. Finds me.
He cups my face with a touch so careful it steals the air from my lungs.
His thumb brushes along my cheek, the rough pad of it tracing the curve of my face like he’s trying to remember it.
For a moment, his gaze softens. But something aching slips back in, quiet and devastating.
Slowly, his hands drift downward, ghosting over the length of my arm, trailing along my fingertips before disconnecting—only to find me again at my hips.
His touch is featherlight but certain, his fingers moving with quiet intent. They skim across my stomach, then to the other side, tracing the bones beneath.
He sucks in a breath. Almost pained.
“You trying to disappear on me?”
His voice is almost pleading.
His fingers move higher, brushing along my ribs. The touch follows each valley, each plane. Counting them.
Like he already knew what he’d find—but needed proof anyway.
“Jesus, Calla.” His voice tightens. “When’s the last time you ate?”
His words nearly break me.
But I realize then, for the first time since he showed up at my door, everything around me feels real—not just a blur of hours and movement I’ve been floating through.
Real .
I nod, swallowing against the sudden rush of emotion pressing at my throat. I want to explain. I want to blame him. But I don’t have the energy to argue.
Haiyden exhales slowly and sinks back onto the couch. Carefully, I round the coffee table, following his lead.
But we don’t face each other. Neither one of us moves to close the space.
We just sit there, staring at the floor.
When I finally speak, there’s an edge to it—a trace of something that’s been simmering beneath the surface.
“Where have you been, Haiyden?”
The question is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the silence all the same.
My heart kicks up, pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
He exhales—long and slow, like he’s bracing himself.
“Tyler was at the bar tonight,” he says, voice almost detached. “Running his mouth.”
My stomach sinks. I shouldn’t go there. I don’t want to go there.
But my mind is already flooded with questions. What did he say? What was their interaction like? Did Tyler know who he was talking to?
I open my mouth, the words pressing at my throat, desperate to escape.
But before I can get anything out, Haiyden speaks again.
“Not tonight.”
His gaze locks onto mine. A pause.
“I came here for you, Calla.”
I want to push. God, I want to. But something stops me—a pause I can’t explain.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the relief of just having him here. Or maybe it’s the way he said it, like he needs this just as much as I do.
So I don’t ask. Not tonight.
Because maybe I need that too.
I don’t know if it’s the drinking, the disappearance, or something else entirely. But Haiyden looks drained—like he has no words left to give.
I watch as he stands, crosses the room to the basket of blankets, and grabs the one on top. His favorite.
But he doesn’t look at me. Not once.
When he returns, he sinks back into the couch, his arm brushing mine as he shakes the blanket out and spreads it over both of our laps.
Part of me thinks I should leave him to sleep.
But another part—selfish, needy—wants to stay. To feel him next to me through the night.
To keep him here.
Softly, Haiyden exhales, leaning in.
His head rests on my shoulder, and it’s like my whole body exhales in return.
His breathing is slow, steady—something I could follow like a path leading straight home. The past few days have felt like a storm, a tornado that ripped me from solid ground.
And now, finally, I’ve landed.
Finally, I’m finding my way back.
At some point, I must fall asleep too, because when I wake up, I’m curled inside of him, my back pressed to his front. But it isn’t the way we normally sleep.
Haiyden is folded in on himself, his body drawn tight, which has forced mine to do the same. His legs—tangled with mine—are pulled in close, and his arms, strong and desperate, are locked around me like he’s afraid of what might happen if he lets go.
It’s like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Like he’s hiding from something only he can see.
The way he’s holding me—it isn’t just protective. It’s instinctive. Bracing.
Like a pill bug curling in on itself, trying to survive.
I don’t move. I don’t want to wake him—don’t want to pull him from whatever fragile peace he’s managed to find.
But more than that, I want to stay. To sink into this hold and disappear into this moment.
A world where none of this happened. Where Willow and Jules are still here.
Where Haiyden didn’t have to carry so much grief.
So instead, I count the places where his warmth touches mine. I measure the quiet rhythm of his breath and adjust my own to match.
At some point, he shifts. His grip loosens, the arm wrapped around my middle sliding away—just enough for his hand to find my shoulder, his touch light, barely there.
In the quiet, his voice comes, soft and raw.
“I love you, Calla.”
My entire body goes still. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
He’s too drunk to realize what he’s said, too far gone to understand the weight of it. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s out there now—hanging between us like something delicate and untouchable .
A moment I can’t acknowledge.
A feeling I can’t acknowledge.
Words I don’t even know whether he’ll remember in the morning.
So I keep my breathing steady. Pretend I’m asleep. Lie there, staring into the dark, feeling everything and nothing, all at once.