Page 15 of Holiday Interference
I don’t flinch. Don’t back away.
Just say his name, soft as a secret.
“Cal.”
He doesn’t startle. Doesn’t cover the guitar or shut down.
He just looks at me.
Really looks.
Something passes between us then.
Not lust.
Just knowing.
Like the sound of his fingers on strings has opened a door neither of us meant to find.
I step closer, each bare foot against the cold wood grounding me more than it should. The snow outside still falls in a silent cascade behind the window, but in here, everything hums with quiet life.
Warm air from the vent brushes my legs. His guitar rests against his chest like a shield he’s finally set down beside him.
“You play a lot?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“Not for anyone. Not usually.”
A pause. A glance.
I nod like I understand. Because I do.
Some things aren’t meant to be shared. But he did anyway.
And now I’m the only person in the world who’s heard it.
He stands and places the guitar back on its stand, but the soft buzz of its final note still lives somewhere in my chest, like it carved out space it wasn’t supposed to have.
I watch as he lays back down on the couch, his long legs stretched out on the cushions, one arm crooked under his head,the other resting across his chest. The blanket barely covers his legs, and the angle of his neck makes my own ache in sympathy.
Crossing the room to the sofa, I sit on the arm and look down at him. “Cal,” I say, too softly to be scolding.
He shifts his eyes toward me without moving the rest of his body. “I’m good.”
“You’re gonna destroy your spine.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, but doesn’t argue. Just lies there like the physical embodiment of stubborn.
I cross my arms. “You’re six-three on a five-foot couch. That’s not chivalry. That’s masochism.”
One brow lifts. “You estimating my height now?”
“I Googled you months ago.” I shrug. “Team website had the stats.”
That gets a half-smile. “That explains the sudden interest in my lumbar health.”
I don’t smile back. Not really. The humor is soft, but the moment is weightier now. The kind that settles into silence without turning awkward.
The kind you have to choose your way through.
