Chapter 43
Calla
I wake up alone.
No longer tangled in Haiyden—but tangled still.
At some point in the night, we drifted into my bedroom, but my body must’ve moved away from him. Like I couldn’t get far enough. As if distance was inevitable.
For a moment, I wonder if this is what Haiyden felt when he disappeared. That instinct to run. A gut-deep, primal urge to get out before something caves in.
Between Willow, Jules, Haiyden, and a stray declaration of love, I don’t think it can get worse than this.
But the lack of answers leaves an ache in me.
Like these mysteries are unraveling thread by thread, but instead of pulling me in, they’re pushing me out.
I slip out of the bed quietly—not that it’s difficult. We’d moved to opposite sides, as if even in sleep, we needed the distance.
For a second, I just watch him. His breathing is uneven, like he’s still fighting something even now. His limbs are sprawled, but his fists are clenched. His jaw, tight. He’s surviving. Even in sleep, he’s not safe.
I pull myself away, moving carefully out of the room.
I move through the kitchen quietly. But my thoughts are loud.
I’m still angry. Angry that Haiyden kept secrets. That he disappeared for days. That he left me feeling so utterly, suffocatingly alone.
And yet, underneath it all… I hurt for him. For his hurt. For his healing.
I pour a cup of coffee, bracing for a long morning of sulking—until I turn around and nearly scream.
Haiyden is standing in the doorway. Silent. Still. Watching me.
“Jesus Christ, Haiyden,” I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. “How long have you been standing there?”
He shrugs. “A few minutes.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I just stare at him, waiting. Expecting something .
An apology. An explanation. Maybe even a confession—that he’d meant what he said.
But nothing comes.
I turn away, sinking onto the couch. I hear him move behind me, but I don’t acknowledge it.
A few seconds pass before I hear the soft glide of his fingers along the back of the couch. Soft, slow. He trails them along the spine, inching closer to me.
Two fingers ghost up my arm, tracing their way to my shoulder, settling there like they belong.
My body reacts on instinct, leaning into him. Letting the need for comfort take over—if only for a minute.
Behind me, Haiyden shifts.
I don’t realize what he’s doing until his fingers slip into my hair, brushing away the strands that have fallen into my face. He keeps going, threading his fingers through the length of it. Twisting. Untangling. Precise, careful movements.
It’s soothing. But it’s not for me.
It’s for him.
That’s when I notice the shaking.
I reach up, wrapping my fingers around his wrists, feeling the tremor beneath his skin. Gently, I pull him forward until his arms drape over my shoulders, his chin resting lightly against the top of my head.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
“I’m fine.”
His response is clipped.
A lie.
He’s hiding behind it—refusing to admit the truth. The drinking. The disappearing act. The weight of whatever’s clawing at him from the inside.
I rock slightly, holding his arms tighter against me. But when I glance toward the kitchen, my grip loosens. I shift, starting to stand.
“I’ll make you breakfast.”
“No.” His response is firm. “It’s not your job to take care of me.”
“Haiyden, it’s fine,” I say, but he stops me with a hand on my arm. “No offense, but you look like shit.”
I wince. The words land harder than I mean them to—but there’s no taking them back.
“It’ll take me five minutes to make you something—”
“Stop.” His voice cuts through mine, exhausted. “Stop trying to fix me. I’m not your problem to fix.”
I turn to him, stunned. My mouth opens, but I have no idea what to say.
He must see it—the way the words hit me—because he drops his head into his hands, shaking it back and forth. A headache? Frustration? I don’t know anymore.
I push up from the couch, standing in front of him. And now that I can really see him, my earlier thought feels like an understatement.
He doesn’t just look like shit.
He looks like a shell of himself.
Even after a full night of sleep, his eyes are still rimmed red, dark circles deepening the exhaustion carved into his face. His clothes hang loose, like he’s been wearing them for days—stretched in ways that say he’s spent more time on the floor than in a bed.
His stance is completely unsteady. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless and tight.
He looks like he’s barely holding himself together. And still, something stops me from reaching for him.
The distance he’s put between us.
The way he won’t let me help.
Something is still off.
“Let’s just go grab breakfast.”
It’s the way he says it that makes me nauseous. Flat. Forced. Like he’s offering neutral ground. Or an exit.
Like it’s all he has left to offer.
Like this morning—the way he touched me—was a goodbye.
I turn away before he can see the sting of that thought in my expression. Swallowing it down, I disappear into my room, pulling on the first sweatshirt and pair of sweatpants I see.
When I step back into the living room, Haiyden’s already at the door, coat in hand. He doesn’t notice me at first—too focused on shoving one arm into his jacket. I watch as he reaches for the other sleeve—
Then stumbles, catching himself against the wall.
It’s quick. Not dramatic. He tries to brush past it, play it off. But I see it.
I move to his side instinctively, my hand wrapping around his arm to steady him. Just offering another leg to stand on.
It’s nothing—a small gesture. Barely anything at all. But instead of leaning into it, he shrugs me off. Adjusts his jacket like I was never there. Like I hadn’t reached for him at all.
It’s a small rejection. But it burns.
And I feel stupid. For caring. For noticing.
He says nothing. Just pulls the door open and steps into the hallway. I swallow hard and follow, locking up behind me before I realize he’s already halfway down the hall.
By the time we reach the car, my breath is coming hard and fast—and not because of the pace.
He has a head start.
He always does.
And those stupid, long legs don’t help either.