Page 90 of Howl for Me
“She didn’t understand film, or LA, or me. She didn’t understand why I’d want anything outside of our hometown. Why I’d leave everything safe and small for something uncertain and mine.”
I shake my head. “But that was the point. She couldn’t control me from this far away. She couldn’t mold me into the version of her she wanted me to be.”
I pause, taking a breath I didn’t realize I needed.
“So when I left, they didn’t throw a going-away party. Didn’t wish me good luck. They just sat back, thinking I’d fall on my face. That I’d come crawling home with nothing to show for it except regret and a few broken dreams.”
I look at him then, really look. He’s watching me like he wants to move towards me, like maybe this whole time I wasn’t just some uptight babysitter he was forced to deal with.
“It’s hard,” I say softly, “to live a life that was written by someone else. Especially when you never got to hold the pen.”
The silence is heavy and thick. Not awkward, just full. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even smirk. He just listens, and that alone makes me feel more seen than I have in years.
He leans back a little, eyes still fixed on mine. “I guess you do understand and I’m sorry you do.”
The energy has shifted and I’m hoping he doesn’t hear my heart beating so damn loud. This changes things, and this understanding between us finally clicks into place. Like maybe we’ve been circling the same wound without realizing it, two broken people trying to write our own damn stories.
There’s me, still stuck on chapter one, scared I’ll never get it right. And him… lost somewhere deep in the plot, rewritingscenes with booze and bad decisions. But right now? There’s no editor in the room. Just us.
I don’t think either of us knows what comes next. For weeks, we’ve circled each other, snapping, pushing, pretending there was nothing underneath it. The bickering was safe. It gave us something to hide behind. But now that this calm understanding is sitting between us, thick and undeniable, all that’s left is the tension we’ve been avoiding. Then he cracks a smile, and it’s real this time. Not the cocky one. Not the smirk he throws at the world like it protects him.
“For the record,” he says, “I’m glad you came to LA, plus I think any kids you had would say fuck as their first word.”
The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, loud, unfiltered, and so damn needed. I cover my mouth, shaking my head. “Stop, I’m not that bad.”
He grins wider. “I’m just saying. You’ve got a mouth on you. You’d try to teach 'em manners, but the minute someone cuts you off in traffic, boom. Instant vocabulary lesson.”
I laugh again, and it feels good to laugh with him. “Okay, maybe that’s fair.”
“You’d be a wonderful mom, though,” he adds, softer now. “Scary as hell. But good.”
That one throws me. My smile falters just a little because no one’s ever said that to me. Not seriously. Not like it was a compliment, but instead an expectation.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
We’re both still smiling, but there’s something different underneath it now. Something charged. I feel it low in my chest, in the way my fingers twitch like they’re aching to close the space between us. But I don’t move. And neither does he. We’re still standing at the edge, both of us unsure what happens if we let go and fall into whatever this is becoming.
“Well,” I say, pushing off the counter with a stretch, “you’ve got a shoot tomorrow.”
He groans like the reminder physically pains him, rubbing a hand over his face before letting out a long, theatrical sigh. “Okay. I won’t drink today. And, dear god, I will cook breakfast tomorrow.”
I gasp, one hand over my chest in mock offense. “What’s wrong with breakfast? I slaved over a hot stove for what? Ten whole minutes?”
He grins, eyes sparkling with mischief now. “Cass. Come on. You called it a peace offering. I call it an attempted murder.”
Cass.
The sound of the nickname makes my cheeks burn, dragging up the memory I’ve worked way too hard to bury. When he was in the shower, moaning it like he couldn’t stop himself. He clears the plates, stacking them neatly, rinsing them with calm, practiced movements. I watch him move around the kitchen, quietly cleaning up the mess I made like this is something we do. Like we do it all the time. And it’s… weirdly nice. No biting sarcasm. No shouting matches or slamming doors. Just quiet movement and lingering glances. Just… peace.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, trying to hold on to the warmth settling in my chest. I’m glad we had the discussion. Things feel lighter.; like some invisible weight has finally slipped off our shoulders. We’re not fixed. We will probably still try to annoy each other at every chance we get. And we will still fight this undercurrent between us because this can’t be more than what it is.
But this? This is a start. I grab a towel and head toward the sink just as he turns to rinse off the last plate. Our hands brush. Just a second. Just a soft, stupid little touch. But it sends a flicker of heat curling up my spine. We don’t look at each other, but the air changes again, thicker now. Heavy with all the thingswe’re not saying. All the things I don’t think either of us is ready to admit.
I clear my throat and take the plate from him, drying it carefully even though it doesn’t need it. “You don’t have to do all the cleaning,” I murmur.
He shrugs, hands resting on the counter now. “Least I can do after you fed me charcoal.”
I smirk. “You’re welcome.”
