Page 40 of When the Storm Breaks
The rest of the afternoon somehow slips by.
Chase and I move around the apartment like we’re in separate worlds. We should’ve just done this at the bar. It’s already clean, the walk would’ve been easy.
This is a waste of energy. A waste of time.
I glance at the clock. Almost 3:00 p.m.
I head to my room to change.
Nothing festive jumps out from the closet—not that I expected it to. So I go the opposite direction: black henley, black jeans cuffed at the ankles, black socks.
Simple. Clean. The only thing that fits my mood.
When I step back into the living room, Chase is in the kitchen, proudly wearing the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen. Santa’s actually popping out of a chimney in 3D, arms raised like he’s ready to hand out beers from two oversized front pockets that could probably fit a six-pack each.
He glances at me, takes in the all-black, and lets out a long sigh.
“Really?”
I shrug. “Your sweater’s fucking ridiculous.”
He shoots back, more amused than annoyed, “It’sfestive. You should try it sometime, Scrooge.”
He slides the last pan into the oven, and just as he’s setting the timer, there’s a soft knock at the door.
She’s right on time.
Before I can move, Chase is already at the door, swinging it open and pulling her into a hug.
“Merry Christmas, Calla!”
I can’t help but cringe.
He hugs her like it’s second nature. She leans into it without hesitation. It gets under my skin in a way I don’t fully understand.
When he finally lets her go, I take her in.
A fitted cream sweater slips off one shoulder, soft against her skin, hugging her in all the right places. Loose black jeans sit just right, balancing her curves, and heeled boots give her a bit of extra height—though I’m still a full head taller.
She’s carrying an armful of bags and gifts, of course. Always prepared. Always thinking ahead.
But then my gaze moves up.
She looks pale, almost washed out. The shadows under her eyes are deeper than normal. Her makeup’s half done, like she started and didn’t bother finishing. Her hair’s tied in a loose, messy bun.
She makes it work. She always does.
But there’s something… off.
There’s a stiffness in the way she holds herself, a tension I don’t remember seeing before. It makes me anxious, and I hate how fast my brain starts cycling through the possibilities.
Late night? Stress?
Better things to do than show up at my apartment on Christmas?
A wave of guilt rips through me when I realize maybe she doesn’t even want to be here.
The thought irritates me more than it probably should.
