Page 129 of When the Storm Breaks
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’twantto go there.
