Page 14 of Holiday Interference
Because some reckless part of me already wants that bed to feel like more than just a bed.
Like a beginning instead of a compromise.
And that is dangerous.
So I do what I’ve always done when I get too close to something I want—I retreat.
I shut the door.
Slide back under the covers.
And lie there, staring at the ceiling, while the storm outside keeps falling and the storm inside me keeps building.
I close my eyes, and the next thing I hear is music.
Not loud. Not structured. Just…sound. Gentle, low, a hum beneath the quiet that wraps around the apartment like a second skin.
For a moment, I think I’m dreaming, the notes so soft they might be coming from inside my head.
But then the strings bend ever so slightly—hesitating on a note like someone choosing between honesty and silence—and I know it’s real.
My legs are tangled in the sheets, too warm now, and the air beyond the bedroom is cool enough to raise goosebumps across my arms when I sit up.
The scent of coffee from earlier lingers, faint but grounding, clinging to his shirt still draped across my body like borrowed comfort.
I pad barefoot toward the door, drawn by the pull of it.
The music guides me like the flicker of a match in the dark. Not loud enough to fill the space. Just enough to lead me through it.
The living room glows with soft light from the kitchen, not quite dark, not quite morning. Cal sits on the edge of the couch, hunched slightly, the body of a worn acoustic guitar resting across his lap.
He doesn’t see me.
He’s shirtless now—just loose sweats, his back lit in amber shadows. The curve of his spine, the strength in his arms, the delicate way his fingers move along the neck of the guitar—it all feels like a contradiction.
Quiet strength. Rough gentleness.
My body tingles from head to toe, and my nipples grow taut against the fabric of his T-shirt.
He strums again. The notes are barely there. A lullaby no one asked for, meant for no one at all. Old chords. Muscle memory.
Maybe something his mom used to sing, or something he picked up alone in a bedroom no one ever knocked on.
And I get it.
This is how he talks.
Not with words. Not with questions or confessions.
With chords and silence. With fingers that speak better than his mouth ever will.
My heart does something strange in my chest—lurches, then stutters like it’s remembering how to ache.
I lean against the doorframe and watch him. Not intruding. Not yet. Just…listening.
The music shifts slightly, like he’s improvising or chasing a feeling he doesn’t want to name. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the silence comes, abrupt and raw.
His head turns, just enough to see me in the corner of his eye.
