Page 45 of When the Storm Breaks
I want to hold her. Keep her. Make it so she never looks at me with that kind of sadness again.
It’s a fragile moment, stretched thin like a thread about to snap.
Calla slips her phone back into her bag and takes a small step away. Like she knows exactly what I’m thinking and needs to put some space between us.
I watch as Chase pulls her into a hug, his voice soft.
“Merry Christmas, Calla. Thanks again for coming over—and for the gift.”
He releases her, then adds, “I’ll walk you out.”
I cut in.
“I got it.”
Calla pauses, glancing between us, something reluctant in hereyes.
Chase looks at me too, his expression a mix of confusion and quiet amusement.
I follow her out, and the door clicks shut behind us, sealing us into the dim hallway.
She shifts on her feet, turning like she’s about to leave, but the thought of her walking away like this—quiet, distant, unraveling at the edges—doesn’t sit right with me.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out. My fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling her back. She stumbles, just slightly, and my hand slides up her arm to steady her.
I don’t let go.
I pull her in, holding her tight against my chest.
My arms lock around her, and she fits like she belongs there—every curve, every breath, warm and seamless against mine.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I whisper, my lips brushing her ear. “You don’t have to tell me, but you don’t have to pretend.”
I don’t meet her eyes. I can’t. Not when I’m this close.
Not when I can feel the slight tremor in every exhale.
But she lets me hold her.
She softens, something in her giving way. Like she’s letting herself lean into me, if only for a moment.
She shifts slightly, just enough that I feel her breath warm against my neck. And in a voice so quiet I almost miss it, she whispers, “Thank you.”
And then it’s gone.
She steps back, and the warmth goes with her.
I watch her walls go up in real time—shoulders straightening,expression smoothing over. She doesn’t even look at me as she turns and walks away.
Her footsteps are soft, but they echo in the quiet she leaves behind.
And I’m stuck. I can’t move.
I just watch her go, fingers still curled like they’re trying to remember the shape of her.
When I open the apartment door and step inside, Chase is waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a knowing look.
“So…” He drags the word out. “What was that about?”
