But the quiet is different now—deeper, thicker, like the storm is pressing the walls closer.
He returns to the couch but doesn’t sit this time. He stands near the coffee table, candlelight haloing him in fire and shadow.
His voice is low when he speaks.
“Storm’s not letting up anytime soon,” he says. “We’ll be stuck here for the night.”
My pulse trips.
“Okay,” I say softly. “That’s…okay.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth before he catches himself.
It’s fast. A fraction of a second. But I see it.
And he knows I saw it.
Heat curls low in my stomach.
I straighten my planner even though I’m not actually looking at it. “We can, um…keep working. If you want.”
“Or,” he says slowly, “you could take a break.”
I look up.
He’s watching me in that quiet, intense way he has—like he’s trying to decide if stepping closer is a mistake or the only real option.
My breath hitches.
The candle flame flickers.
And the storm hums on.
“Calder,” I whisper, not sure what question I’m asking.
His answer is a soft, rough sound at the back of his throat.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says.
But he doesn’t look away.
FOUR
CALDER
I should go to bed.
I should let her go to bed.
Instead, we’re both sitting here pretending we’re reviewing the family arrival schedule while we’re actually staring at the same flickering flame and very much not looking at each other.
She breaks first.
“So,” she says, flipping a page she’s absolutely not reading. “Sleeping arrangements.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah.”
“I’m guessing the loft is…not an option?” she asks, glancing upward.
