Page 43 of When the Storm Breaks
And I know I’m not the only one who feels it. Calla tenses beside me. Her breath goes shallow.
The moment Chase disappears, we both stand. Like the shift in the room’s dynamic has yanked us both to our feet. She knows this is herway out—her chance to hide, to run to the bathroom, to breathe. But before she can move, I reach out and catch her arm.
She freezes. Her eyes snap up to meet mine. Her instinct is to pull away, and she does slightly, but she doesn’t go far.
Caught between staying and leaving.
My grip is loose. She could break away easily.
But she doesn’t.
“You’re too quiet,” I murmur, trying to bury the frustration in my voice.
I search her face, trying to find her behind whatever barrier she’s building.
“Tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”
She stays silent, but her expression goes blank, like she’s locking something away. Slipping further from me.
“Calla,” I whisper, softer this time. A plea. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes meet mine, just for a second.
And I see it all—the pain, the hurt, the ache—before she looks away, breaking the small, fragile connection we had.
She swallows.
“Nothing.”
A beat.
“Just tired, that’s all.”
It’s a lie, and we both know it. The truth is on the tip of my tongue, ready to push back. But before I can speak, Chase bursts back into the room.
I let go of Calla, step away, and watch as Chase’s eyes bounce between us. Something flickers across his face. Confusion, maybe suspicion. But it’s gone before I can place it.
“Sorry,” Chase says, a little out of breath. “They were waiting until everyone got there to give me a call.”
“It’s okay,” Calla says, just as I mutter, “No worries.”
Her voice wavers slightly, and I catch the faint blush creeping across her face.
I can see Chase taking it all in. Our plates still scattered. Calla and I standing too close. My fingers still resting around her wrist. Her breathing just a little too heavy.
He doesn’t say anything. Just starts stacking the dishes. Calla, ever the helper, pulls away, grabs the rest, and follows.
I let go of her but stay behind, begging the pounding in my chest to settle.
A few minutes pass before I move to the counter, taking my time packing up leftovers. But I keep an eye on her. She stands beside Chase, drying dishes while he washes. Her back is to me, but every time I brush past to drop another plate in the sink, I see it.
The smallest shift in her shoulders.
The way she straightens herself too quickly, like she’s steeling herself.
Like if she forces stillness, forces composure, she can pretend she doesn’t feel me there.
It’s subtle. But I notice.
