Page 25 of When the Storm Breaks
“Truce?”
I take them without a word, nodding stiffly before walking toward the barstools. The distance between us doesn’t matter. Her eyes are still on me, burning into the back of my neck.
She’s not satisfied with the little truce I gave her.
But the truth is neither am I.
The image of her with Chase—of them spending the last week together—digs in deep. It plants a seed that keeps growing, blooming into something darker with every passing moment.
Calla turns back toward the table, the faint crinkle of shopping bags breaking the silence between us.
I glance back, watching her unpack. She moves like she’s trying to be quiet. Careful. Invisible. Like the world might shatter if she isn’t.
One by one, she pulls out the ornaments. These aren’t the cheap, forgettable ones already on the tree. They’re unique. Deliberately chosen.
There’s too much thought behind every piece. Too much effort.
It doesn’t feel right.
It feels like she’s trying to fix something broken beyond repair. Like she thinks putting everything back together will somehow seal the cracks. But some things just don’t go back to the way they were. No matter how much you want them to.
Chase sighs from behind the bar, the sound deeper this time—almost annoyed.
Slowly, he walks over. I see the shame in his eyes as he looks at her.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, voice tight.
“Actually, it’s the least she can do.” I can’t stop myself from cutting in. “Considering she’s the one who broke them in the first place.”
Calla scoffs and turns to the tree, studying it from every angle. Her back is to me, but the restlessness between us is palpable.
I turn to Chase, who’s shaking his head in disappointment.
“I have work to do,” he says, tone sharper than usual. He starts to walk away, but not before adding—barely loud enough for me to hear:
“Behave yourself.”
As Chase leaves the room, I turn back to Calla. She’s still focused on the tree, a few ornaments carefully cradled in her gauze-wrapped hands.
She heard what Chase said. I saw the faint flush of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. But it fades quickly, replaced by that quiet focus.
That unrelenting drive to fix what’s broken.
And goddamn, it draws me in. She’s crawled under my skin andmade herself at home.
Her hands move with intent, one ornament at a time, each movement intentional. She’s creating something real. Something that matters.
Several minutes pass. She’s made it through half the ornaments, each one placed with a precision most people wouldn’t bother with.
But now, she’s stalled. Her eyes lock on a spot too high to reach, frustration clouding her features as she twists the ornament in her hand.
Without thinking, I push off the barstool and walk toward her.
She doesn’t notice at first, too focused on the tree. But when I step behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body, she freezes.
I tower over her, and without a word, I pluck the ornament from her hand.
Her breath hitches, and I feel it—the way it rattles through her.
