Page 11 of When the Storm Breaks
My hands shake against the steering wheel, knuckles white, throat tight with everything I didn’t say out loud.
When I finally make it home, everything feels too tight—my skin, my chest, this life. My heart’s still racing, caught in a carousel of emotions that won’t stop spinning.
I kick off my shoes and they land with a dull rattle, knocking against the dirty dishes in the sink. But I can’t bring myself to care about the mess.
I crawl into bed, my body still simmering with an uncomfortable heat. The sheets feel too rough, the room too quiet. I close my eyes,willing sleep to come, but my mind won’t settle.
How did everything go so wrong so fast?
I pull the blanket tighter around me, like it might shield me from the memory of his hands, his mouth, his eyes. But sleep comes fitfully, broken only by the soft whirr of the ceiling fan and the first tear that slips down my cheek.
Chapter 4
Calla
I wake up to the throb of a headache, the harsh morning light slicing through the curtains and cutting straight into my skull. The ache behind my eyes deepens as I roll onto my side, pressing the heels of my hands into my forehead, begging it to stop. I didn’t sleep. I moved restlessly, my body unsettled by the emotions I dragged into bed with me.
Fragments of last night drift through my mind—disjointed and hazy, sharp like shards of glass catching the light. A flash of him. A moment. A touch. Enough to stir something inside me, something I don’t want to feel. My stomach clenches, a knot of unease forming as shame spreads through me, seeping in like a stain that won’t wash away.
How did I let it happen? I was so reckless—so drawn to him, like I couldn’t stop myself. And I don’t even know his name. I practically threw myself at him, responding to the slightest touch like I was desperate.
It doesn’t make sense. This unexplainable pull toward him. The way my skin burned under his hands—a reaction I stillfeel now. I shouldn’t have let him have that hold on me. I should’ve pushed back. Maybe if I had, it wouldn’t hurt like this.
I swear, I can still taste him on my lips, my fingers still aching where they pressed against him.
Heat simmers low in my belly, but I refuse to let him control me—especially not from a distance. With a frustrated groan, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Every movement takes more energy than I have, my thoughts screaming louder than they have any right to.
Why am I letting a stranger occupy so much of my mind?
Peeling off my damp clothes from last night, still clinging to my skin with traces of sweat, I let them fall into a pile on the floor. My limbs ache with the weight of everything I didn’t say, every feeling I couldn’t escape.
I slip into worn grey sweatpants and a cropped long-sleeve shirt, the soft fabric a small comfort against my clammy skin. Pulling my hair into a messy bun, I slide into slippers and shuffle toward the kitchen.
I pause, my eyes locking on the coffee pot. The thought of caffeine stirs a small spark of energy in me. Slowly, I fill the machine with water and grounds, the familiar motions bringing some semblance of normalcy. I reach into the cabinet for the first mug I touch—
And the moment I see it, my heart sinks.
The mug. Her mug.
It was a gift from Jules—one of those small, thoughtful gestures only she could pull off. I remember the day she gave it to me, just weeks after I moved in. I was still drowning in the chaos of a new job and a new apartment, barely keeping my head above water.
She’d shown up at my door in pajamas, her wild curls barelytamed, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips. She only lived two floors up, but seeing her here first thing in the morning, holding a gift bag with tissue paper spilling over the top, was something I didn’t expect.
“I don’t need this,” I’d said hesitantly, uncomfortable with the idea of accepting anything from her. She’d already done so much without even realizing it—filling cracks I hadn’t known were there, mending parts of me I hadn’t acknowledged were broken.
She just laughed, rolled her eyes, and shoved the bag into my hands. “Oh, stop. Just open it.”
Inside was the mug, plain white with bold black letters that read: All My Sheets Are Dirty, the words printed in a no-nonsense font that mimicked the style of a spreadsheet header. Thin, faint grid lines stretched across the ceramic, mimicking the neat rows of a well-organized table. It was clever, and exactly the mix of nerdy and cheeky only Jules could find.
I’d burst out laughing, holding it up as she threw her hands in the air.
“It fits, okay?” she’d said, grinning like she’d just delivered the perfect punchline. “Consider it a housewarming-slash-office-warming gift. Functional and accurate.”
The memory is so vivid it almost hurts, her laugh still echoing faintly in my mind. The mug feels heavier than it should, my thumb brushing over the text until it blurs into a haze of unshed tears.
With a slow breath, I set it back on the shelf and reach for another—plain, simple, unremarkable.
And I close the cabinet with a soft click.
