“We’ll bring you back some crackers,” Cal said, patting Evan’s foot through the blanket. “And maybe a bucket.”
“Get out,” Evan groaned, throwing a pillow feebly in our direction.
We escaped into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind us. The silence was sudden and thrilling.
For the first time in three months, it was just us. No Evan. No Creative. No producers. Just a rainy Tuesday in Seattle and twelve hours to kill before call time tomorrow.
Cal turned to me, a grin spreading across his face.
“So,” Cal said, nudging my shoulder. “You, me, and the rain city. I hear they have coffee here. You like coffee, right, grandpa?”
I rolled my eyes, fighting a smile. Even at twenty-two, I felt decades older than him sometimes. “I like coffee. I don’t like the sugar milkshakes you drink.”
“Hey, whipped cream is a food group,” Cal argued, grabbing my arm and steering me toward the elevator. “Come on. Let’s go get lost.”
We managed to blend in.
Cal pulled a beanie low over his messy dark hair and wore a pair of thick rimmed glasses that he didn’t need but somehow made him look even more attractive. I wore a hoodie and kept my head down.
Seattle was gray, wet, and perfect.
We wandered through Pike Place Market, dodging the tourists and the flying fish. We didn’t talk about wrestling. We didn’t talk about the ratings or the storylines. We were just two guys in their twenties, hiding in plain sight.
We ended up in a small, cramped coffee shop tucked away in an alley that smelled like roasted beans and old books.
We sat in a booth by the window, watching the rain streak the glass. Cal had a mocha with an embarrassing amount of foam. I had a black drip coffee.
“You’re such a snob,” Cal teased, licking a bit of foam from his lip. “Look at you. Drinking bean water.”
“It’s called coffee, Cal. It’s supposed to taste like caffeine, not a candy bar.”
“You’re boring,” Cal laughed. He reached across the small table, his foot bumping mine under the table. He didn’t pull it back. He just let his leg rest against mine, a warm, steady pressure that sent a quiet thrill up my spine.
“I like boring,” I murmured, taking a sip.
“I know,” Cal said softer. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “It suits you. Keeps me grounded.”
Hereached out, stealing a blueberry muffin from my plate. He broke off a piece, looking thoughtful.
“Tell me about home again,” Cal said suddenly.
I blinked. “Home? You mean the apartment in Orlando?”
“No,” Cal shook his head. “I meanhome. The woods. North Carolina. Where you grew up.”
I frowned, tracing the rim of my cup. “Why do you want to know about that? It’s the middle of nowhere. It’s wetlands and oak trees and mosquitos the size of birds.”
“Just tell me,” Cal pressed, leaning forward, his knee pressing harder against mine. “Is it quiet?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “It’s quiet. It’s down a dirt road. You can’t hear the highway. At night, all you hear is the wind in the trees and the river in the distance. It’s… solitary.”
Cal smiled. It wasn’t his stage smile. It was soft, almost yearning.
“That sounds nice,” Cal murmured. “Ideally, I’d want a place like that. No neighbors. Just trees and water.”
My heart did a traitorous flip in my chest.
“You’d hate it,” I said, forcing my voice to stay casual, terrified of the hope blooming in my chest. “You’re a city kid. You’re from Philly. You’d get bored in a week without the noise.”
