Page 62 of When the Storm Breaks
I pull out my phone and scroll aimlessly, barely registering what’s on the screen. The first two songs blur together, just background noiseto the movement in front of me.
But then the next one starts—low, aching, almost too tender for the moment—and I glance up.
The flow of his movements holds my attention more than it should. There’s something almost hypnotic about it.
He soaps up two glasses, rinses them under the water, then sets them on a towel to dry. His hands move quickly but carefully, like the motions are second nature.
His dark hair keeps falling onto his face, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s just too focused to care. He uses the back of his wrist to push it away, a casual gesture that somehow feels deliberate.
And I can’t look away.
The tattoo on his neck shifts with him, disappearing and reappearing as he moves—the ink stretching and curving along his skin. He stands over the bar with an easy, unhurried presence, his frame cutting clean lines against his reflection in the mirror behind him.
I shouldn’t be watching him like this. But it’s impossible not to.
He moves like he’s done this a hundred times before. Like the space belongs to him. There’s nothing rushed about him, nothing uncertain. Even in silence, he commands—and maybe that’s what unsettles me the most.
The light catches the scruff along his jawline, and for a moment, I’m acutely aware of how closely I’m watching.
He looks up.
Our eyes meet.
It’s barely a second, but I feel it all the way down to my fingertips.
I swallow hard and drop my gaze, pretending to scroll through my phone again. But my hands are unsteady, my grip is too tight.
When the song finally fades out, I can’t help myself.
I stand and move quietly behind the bar, standing close enough that our elbows might brush if either of us moves.
I tell myself I’m not paying attention—that I don’t notice the almost imperceptible way Haiyden adjusts his posture, the subtle tilt of his body toward mine as I settle in next to him.
When he sets the next pair of glasses on the towel, I reach out and grab one. My movements don’t match his yet, but I mimic what I’ve seen, carefully drying each glass before setting it aside.
He freezes, hands pausing under the running water. The pause drags a second too long, like he’s deciding whether to stop me.
Then his surprise softens into something quieter, and he moves slightly to make room. We fall into a slow rhythm. Unspoken, but easy. Somehow, we move in sync.
I can feel his presence more than ever. And I think he feels me, too. His movements are still precise, but his shoulders aren’t as rigid, his posture not quite as guarded.
He reaches for another glass, and in that motion, his shoulder brushes mine.
Just for a second.
Almost too brief to register.
But warmth spreads through me, and I hold my breath.
He doesn’t pull away. Neither of us does.
For the first time, Haiyden feels real. Not just the broody, distant figure I’ve been trying to piece together in my mind. Not just jagged edges and unreadable looks.
Here, now, in this moment, he’s something else entirely. Grounded. Present. And achingly, impossibly human.
When the last glass is dried and set in its place, he turns to me.
“Thank you, Calla.”
