Page 103 of When the Storm Breaks
She looks from me to the clothes, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head as her eyes scan the room. The second they land on the winter gear folded on the bed, something flickers through her expression.
Hope. Curiosity. Thatkidfeeling—the one that hadn’t been there before.
Her whole face lights up, just for a second. She’s starting to get it.
And fuck, I’d do this a thousand times just to see that look again.
“I’ll be back in five minutes. Be ready,” I say, slipping out of the room and heading straight for Chase’s closet.
He usually keeps a backup set—extra jacket, snowpants, gloves. Stuff he forgets he owns until the first snow hits and he turns into some kind of overly enthusiastic mountain goat.
I start digging, half-praying he didn’t take the whole damn setup with him on his trip.
As I search, I think, just for a second, how much better Chase’s stuff might fit her. He’s smaller than me. Slimmer. His clothes wouldn’t drown her like mine probably will.
But the thought doesn’t sit right. Not even a little. I’ll wear Chase’s stuff. That’s fine.
She’s not wearing another man’s jacket. Not even his gloves.
Even if Chase is harmless. Even if he wouldn’t think twice.
It’s mine or nothing.
I find what I need—thank fuck—and head back into my room with my arms full.
When I push open the door, Calla’s already dressed in the layers I laid out. Sweatpants cuffed too high at the ankles, sweatshirt sleeves bunched at her wrists.
She’s standing by the bed, holding the jacket and snowpants I pulled from my closet earlier.
Waiting for me.
The image knocks the air out of my chest.
We move through the apartment together, back into the living room and toward the front closet.
I pull out the plastic bin we keep filled with hats and gloves—whatever’s survived the last few winters—and set it on the table with the rest of the gear.
And I start to bundle her up.
She has to stay warm.
Has to.
I can’t shake it—that image of her in my car that night. Lips blue. Hands ice-cold. Body trembling.
It haunts me.
Lives under my skin.
I grab the snowpants and shake them out, crouching in front of her. I take her foot in my hand—gently, like she’s breakable. Slide oneleg in, then the other. I rise, button the waist, cinch it tight around her.
Next is the jacket. I hold it open, help her slide her arms through, then turn her to face me again. I zip it slowly, carefully moving her hair out of the way with the backs of my fingers so I don’t catch it in the zipper.
She’s quiet through it all, letting me move her. Watching me like she can’t figure out if I’m trying to keep her warm—or just keep her.
Probably both.
I kneel again, this time for the boots. I unlace them one by one, then guide her feet in, careful to avoid any uncomfortable angles.
