Page 179 of Love Me Stalk Me
"Why me, though?"
I hold my breath.
And then he says, quietly but with no room for doubt: “Because you see me. And I see you.”
Just that. Like it's the most obvious answer in the world, like that should be enough explanation on its own, like there's no one else it could have ever been.
I smile at his words—not because I totally understand them, but because I want to, because I want to believe I can be someone worth choosing.
Cal finishes his plate first, pushing the tray aside with an easy, effortless movement, his muscles shifting under inked skin as he stretches one arm back behind his head. He grabs the remote, flipping on the TV like he's done it a thousand times before, like he knows my streaming services as well as I do. The screen flickers to life. "Pick a show," he says, casually scrolling through the options.
“Seriously?”
"Something you've always wanted to watch." He turns his head, arching an eyebrow at me, like he already knows I'm not going to argue, like he already knows I want this as much as he does. "We're watching it together," he continues, tone casual but firm, like it's already decided. "Episode by episode. Over dinner. In bed."
Ilet out a soft laugh, shaking my head, settling back into the pillows. I reach for the remote, my fingers brushing against his as I take it from his grip. The brief contact sends a spark up my arm. "You better not fall asleep mid-episode, Callahan."
His lips twitch, amusement slipping into something darker. "Guess you’ll just have to keep me entertained."
We finished eating. We watched an episode ofBridgerton—because if I was going to force Callahan to sit through a show, it was going to be over-the-top, ridiculous, pure romance.
And now I'm full, warm, and perfectly content. The wine has settled in my system, making me feel soft, with a pleasant buzz humming just beneath my skin. Cal insisted on cleaning up while I finished my drink, gathering the plates, stacking the tray, moving through my kitchen like he's been here for years instead of days.
And I let him. Because, for once, I liked letting someone take care of me.
Now he's back, standing at the edge of my bed, looking down at me. The shadows play across his face, highlighting the angles of his cheekbones. And then he does the unexpected—he leans down, presses a soft kiss to my forehead, and murmurs, "Goodnight, pretty girl." Then he stands and heads for the door.
No. No, that's not right.
My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist, holding him firm. "No!"
He stops immediately, turning back, brows furrowed, expression cautious. I don't let go. I tighten my grip, and then I force myself to say it: "I want you here."
His eyes darken, but his expression stays carefully unreadable. Doubt creeps in—did I read this entire night wrong? Why doesn't he want to sleep next to me?
"Izzy..." His voice is careful. "It's not that I don't want to."
He sits back down beside me, his weight dipping the mattress, his presence overwhelming. And then he tells me that he doesn't really sleep well. That sometimes—not always, but sometimes—he has night terrors from the war, from the atrocities he's seen. And he doesn't want to disturb me.
"Plus, I haven't slept in anything bigger than a twin bed in a decade."
"I don't care." He looks at me as I swallow, tightening my hold on his hand. "I'll stay up with you, if you want."
He shakes his head immediately. "No, you need your sleep."
I press my lips together before saying softly, "Please. I want you here. Let me take care of you for once."
His fingers flex against mine, his lips part likehe's about to argue, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans in and kisses me deeply, fully, like he's forgetting himself, like he's forgetting the whole damn world. His body shifts, pressing against mine, pushing me back into the pillows. The soft mattress cradles my curves as his weight settles against me. And by the time he pulls away, I'm turned on all over again.
And he? He's in my bed. Callahan Knight is very much in my bed.
He settles in beside me and we lie in silence for a while. His arm rests across my chest, anchoring me in place. I know he’s awake; his breathing is uneven, his muscles still holding tension. But he’s comfortable enough to keep me close, to hold me like I’m his even in the quiet. And I like it. I like the pressure of him, the strength in his body, the way his forearm drapes over me.
My fingers drift along his skin, tracing the lines of ink stretched over muscle. The tattoos feel slightly raised beneath my fingertips, the texture different from his smooth skin. I can feel his skin react, tiny shivers rippling through him. It makes him tingle, makes him relax, so I don't stop. Instead, I trace every line, every angle and intricate design, wondering what each of them means.
As my fingers explore, they brush against something cool and metallic at his throat—his dog tags. They've been there all along, resting against his chest. I pause, fingertips hovering over them, suddenly aware that I'm touching a piece of his identity. "Sorry," I murmur, pulling my hand back.
Cal catches my wrist gently, guiding my fingers back to the tags. "Don't be."
