Page 77 of Holiday Interference
I told myself to grow up. Move on.
But I’m here anyway.
Because for all my control, for all the neat lines I draw around my heart, I can’t stop the ache that settled there.
A door creaks open to my right.
Light spills across the concrete, and my breath catches like it’s snagged on the cold air.
There he is, my Cal.
Mine.
He’s fresh from the locker room shower, hair damp, curling slightly at the ends.
Game-day suit clinging to the sharp lines of his shoulders, his tie hanging loose around his neck like he hasn’t decided whether to keep pretending the night’s over.
He’s got a duffel bag slung over one arm. His head is down, steps slow, like he’s walking through fog only he can see.
And for one breathless second, I get tolook.
No filter. No pressure. No countdown.
Just him.
God, he’s beautiful.
That quiet kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you. The kind that doesn’t need flash because it’s built from something sturdier—strength, honesty, the kind of tenderness you don’t expect from a man with hands like his.
I forget the cold. Forget my heels. Forget how hard I’ve tried to build a life where no one could crack the walls I put up around my feelings.
Because here he is.
And every wall I ever built is like paper in the wind.
He still hasn’t seen me, but he’s coming closer. Step by step, each one louder in my chest than it is on the pavement.
The world narrows to the sound of his shoes, the hitch in my breath, the silence between us straining to break.
And I know.
I know I’m not ready.
But I’m here.
And so is he.
His steps falter when he sees me.
It takes a beat—one, maybe two—for his eyes to adjust to the dark and realize I’m not just a shadow leaning against his SUV.
And then he stops, a soft puff of white leaving his mouth.
And he just…looks at me.
No swagger. No smirk.
Just a knot of something heavy in his gaze that lands square in my chest and coils tight.
