Page 21 of When the Storm Breaks
I swallow hard, trying to push down the flood of emotions.
“My best friend.”
The words come out soft, almost weightless, like they belong to someone else—someone far away. I don’t recognize the pounding in my head or the way my chest feels like it’s closing in.
Chase steps around the chair, his eyes fixed on me, studying me in a way that makes me feel exposed. He nods once, slowly. But there’s something else in his expression, something that feels too much like pity. And that’s the last thing I want.
I hear it before I can stop myself—a sudden snap as I slam my laptop shut, the sound cutting through the quiet like a warning shot. I start shoving everything into my bag, my hands shaking with the need to move, to get out, to escape whatever emotions are suddenly crowding the space between us.
My fingers fumble with the zipper. I stand too fast. My foot catches on the chair. The world tilts. For a second, everything slows, like I’m watching myself fall from somewhere far away.
I crash backward, the sound of the Christmas tree toppling behind me sending a jolt of panic through my chest. Ornaments shatter, scattering across the hardwood in a violent rain of glass. My back hits the floor with a force that makes my spine twinge as the world blurs around me.
My hands shoot out, landing in a pile of broken ornaments. Theshards slice into my palms, forcing a gasp from me. My breath comes in short bursts, eyes squeezed shut as blood begins to bead and spill, dripping onto the floor, adding a new shade to the already scattered reds, greens, whites, and golds.
For a long moment, I stay there—mortified, wishing I could sink into the floor, disappear into the broken glass and loose tinsel. Then I hear footsteps, quick and frantic.
Chase is there before I can make sense of what’s happening, his hands already reaching for me. My eyes snap open. He’s crouched in front of me, eyes flicking between my face and bleeding palms, his expression tight with concern.
Pity. It’s the only word that registers as I watch his expression shift.
“Let me help you,” Chase says, his voice calm, though there’s something else underneath. Worry, maybe.
“I got it,” I snap, my voice betraying me as I struggle to find a place to put my hands.
“Calla, please. The tree doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice firmer now, hands hovering just above mine, waiting to help me up.
“Chase, no. There’s blood all over my hands,” I say, almost pleading. “I’ve got it.”
His gaze softens, eyes widening like I’m something fragile he’s afraid to break. “Really, it’s fine,” he says, his voice gentle but edged with quiet urgency.
His words send me into a frenzy. Before I know it, I’m scrambling to clean up the mess, grabbing shards of porcelain and glass. Blood smears across the floor, making it harder to gather the pieces, but I can’t stop. I need to fix this.
A moment later, his hand is on my wrist, pulling me up with surprising strength.
“That’s enough, Calla,” he says, hauling me to my feet. “You’re bleeding. Stop.”
Before I can protest, his hands find my shoulders, guiding me back to the chair. He nudges me down, then gently turns my palms upward to assess the damage.
Tears spill down my cheeks as a wave of helplessness crashes over me.
“Stay here,” he says, voice soothing, like he knows I’m not okay even if I can’t admit it.
He disappears into the back office, and I’m left with nothing but silence. The faint shuffle of supplies, drawers opening, closing—then the quiet tread of his footsteps as he returns.
Chase crouches between my knees, eyes soft as he looks up at me. He sets the first aid kit on the floor and flips it open. “This might sting a little,” he says, reaching for the bottle of antiseptic.
The moment it touches my skin, I suck in a breath. The burn is immediate—searing. I flinch, clenching my jaw to keep from crying out.
“Almost done,” he whispers.
I nod without meeting his eyes, watching instead as he carefully applies ointment to the cuts. His touch is precise but gentle, and for a moment, it’s all I can feel.
He wraps my palms in gauze, securing it with medical tape.
When he finishes, he looks up, meeting my eyes with a quiet intensity that makes my heart stutter. His hands stay on mine, thumbs brushing gently over the bandages.
“Don’t worry about it, okay?” His voice is calm but firm, like he’s willing me to believe him. “It was an accident. It happens.”
