Page 63 of When the Storm Breaks
His voice is soft. Surprisingly sincere.
My smile is gentle. I don’t know if it’s the quiet, the closeness, or the way the moment stretches a little too long, but it makes my pulse falter.
Before I can respond, he steps away, disappearing through the door into the back office without another word.
And in that moment, I wonder if he feels it too—the shift in the air we’ve both been too careful to name.
Chapter 21
Calla
The next morning, I show up at Driftwood again.
I tell myself it’s just a habit. That it’s easier than finding somewhere new. That I don’t owe anyone an explanation for where I spend my mornings.
But I know that’s not the whole truth.
There’s something about being here—about him—that makes me feel something.
I was getting comfortable with the idea of not coming back, of putting some distance between myself and this place.
But I can’t seem to stay away.
I pause at the door, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. I shake the nerves from my limbs and knock, louder this time, like I’m trying to drown out the feeling twisting inside me.
The door swings open almost immediately.
His breathing is a little too fast, his chest rising and falling like he was already in motion before he reached the door. Like he was expecting me.
He doesn’t smile. And there’s something different in his eyes.
“Morning,” he says, voice even. I don’t miss the way he swallows after, like the word didn’t sit quite right in his throat.
Still, we fall into our usual rhythm.
He moves behind the counter, his motions a little too harsh as he grabs a rag and starts wiping down the bar, even though it doesn’t need it. I settle into my usual chair, pulling a book from my bag. Not because I actually plan to read it, but because I need something to hold between us.
The quiet is easy.
And then it isn’t.
I should be working. That’s what I tell myself as I stare at the pages. But I can’t. The holidays, Jules, my job—it’s all slipping through my fingers, and I can’t seem to catch any of it.
How am I supposed to write about self-care when I can’t even keep myself from falling apart?
I press my thumb to the inside of the book’s spine, the paper cool and smooth beneath my touch. But my thoughts drift somewhere else.
To the other night.
To him.
He was there, and in a way I didn’t expect. Not just physically, but in a way that made me feel like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just some passing moment in his life, but something more.
I breathe slowly, dragging my fingers along the edges of the pages, trying to convince myself it’s just the stress of… everything. That this feeling—this unexplainable pull in my chest whenever he’s near—is just a desperate grasp for something stable.
But as Haiyden moves back into my view, I feel it again.
His movements have changed, though. There’s something frantic about them now—his hands brushing against things a little too hard, his shoulders a little too tense.
