Page 87 of When the Storm Breaks
By the time the credits roll, the room feels different. The golden light filtering through the window has shifted, stretching long across the floor, softening the space. Neither of us moves, so I start scrolling for another movie.
“One more?”
She stirs, shaking the blanket loose. “I’m gonna grab a glass of water.”
Before she can get up, I press a hand to her shoulder, keeping her in place. “I got it.”
In the kitchen, I grab two glasses from the open shelving. The microwave clock catches my eye—it’s already early afternoon. Outside, the light has deepened, turning warmer, heavier. The apartment feels still. Settled.
I don’t know what her plans are, but selfishly, I want to keep her here as long as I can.
I fill the glasses and bring them back, handing hers over. I watch as her lips round the rim, taking slow sips before setting it down. She moves, shaking out the blanket and sitting down again. Closer this time. Only a few inches, but I feel them like they’re miles.
I pick another movie, barely registering the choice, and shift closer too.
When this one ends, the sky outside has deepened to blue, stretching cool shadows across the walls. To my surprise, Calla leans forward, snatching the remote from the table.
“My pick,” she says, plopping back down—closer, still.
She puts on a cartoon—something from her childhood, she says—but I barely hear the explanation over the pounding in my chest. Maybe an inch separates us, but my body reacts like she’s in my lap. I have to fight the impulse to reach for her.
It’s strange how easy this feels. I’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, but it doesn’t feel unnatural to let her in.
Halfway through the movie, her stomach growls. Loudly.
The soft glow from the TV flickers across her face, illuminating the slight flush in her cheeks.
Fuck. I forgot to feed her again.
“What, my eggs and toast weren’t enough?” I smirk.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s been like, three movies.” A teasing grin tugs at her lips. “And what happened to five-star treatment?”
“Okay, okay.” I push off the couch with exaggerated dramatics. “Is frozen pizza up to your five-star standards?”
She laughs—reallylaughs—and the sound burrows deep into my chest.
“Yes,” she says, still smiling.
I throw in the pizza and return to the couch while it cooks. The movie plays, and we settle into an easy kind of comfort—one I don’t know what to do with. The apartment feels smaller now, dimmer, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes at the end of the day.
When the oven timer beeps, I pause the screen, plate the pizza, and bring it over.
We eat in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s warm. Familiar.
After a few minutes, Calla sets her plate down, tucks her feet beneath her, and adjusts the blanket so it spills over both our laps.
It’s small.Easy. Natural.
But I feel it.
Outside, the last of the daylight gives way to night, the only light now coming in flashes from the TV. At some point, Calla leans into my side, her body pressing against mine.
I consider moving, adjusting, making room for her to stretch out—but then I hear it. The quiet, even breaths of her sleeping.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. She’s exhausted. Her body’s worn. She’s comfortable. That’s all.
But I don’t move.
