Page 110 of When the Storm Breaks
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 bemeagain.
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.
