CHAPTER 7: Distance and Desires
947 Words
Some connections don’t happen in a rush.
They creep in—quiet, patient—until you’re consumed.
Until distance feels like grief,
and desire becomes the ache you don’t dare speak.
Leigh didn’t go to the café the next morning.
She told herself she needed a day off. That she should try unpacking the rest of her boxes, apply to at least one job, be functional.
But mostly, she was terrified.
Terrified of what she’d said. Of what he might be feeling. Of what she might be feeling.
Because Callum Reyes wasn’t just a stranger anymore.
He wasn’t just the man with tired eyes and long sleeves.
He had a name. A past. A wound that matched hers in shape and weight.
And suddenly, she couldn’t breathe around him without feeling too much.
Callum noticed she didn’t come.
He told himself it was fine. She was busy. She needed space.
But halfway through his coffee, he was already outside, walking without direction, his boots echoing along Havenbrook’s empty streets.
His hands stayed deep in his pockets. Not from the cold.
From the need to not go knocking on her door.
From the ache that sat just under his skin—tight, alive, and utterly unfamiliar.
That evening, Leigh stared at her reflection.
She looked the same.
But she wasn’t.
She wore her old flannel, pulled her hair back messily, and paced.
She didn’t know how to reach out. How to say: I want to see you, but I’m scared that the more I see you, the more of me you’ll find.
But her body moved before her mind caught up.
Down the stairs. Across the road. Into the cool of dusk.
She found herself at the Stillwater Café—empty now, lights dimmed.
Her heart sank.
Then—
“Looking for someone?”
She turned.
He was standing by his truck, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.
She blinked. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“I wasn’t,” he said simply. “But I hoped you might be.”
The air thickened.
He stepped forward.
“You disappeared.”
“I panicked,” she admitted. “It’s what I do when something starts to feel like more than I planned.”
Callum didn’t flinch. “And what is this?”
Her chest rose. Fell.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I feel it.”
He took another step. Close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his irises. Close enough that if she leaned in, just slightly, her forehead would meet his chest.
“So do I,” he said.
A beat passed.
And then—
“Do you want to walk?”
She exhaled. “Always.”
They walked in silence again.
This time toward the edge of Havenbrook, where the houses thinned and the trees thickened. Where the streetlights grew sparser and the sky felt bigger.
They walked beside each other—shoulders close, breath visible in the cool air.
Leigh looked up at him.
“You always walk like you're heading somewhere.”
He glanced sideways. “That’s because I used to run.”
“From what?”
“Everything.”
She smiled, softly. “Same.”
They reached the clearing near the creek. A wooden bench overlooked the slow-moving water, slick with moonlight. They sat, close, but not touching.
And then…
Leigh turned her body toward him. “Can I ask something personal?”
“You’ve earned that.”
She hesitated. “Do you ever feel like... you’re not allowed to want something good? Like, the moment it feels close, you ruin it on purpose?”
Callum stared at the water.
“All the time,” he said. “Sometimes I think I’m more afraid of happiness than pain.”
“Because happiness leaves?”
“Because happiness doesn’t beg you to stay.”
That silence again.
Not empty.
Heavy.
Leigh reached out.
Her fingers brushed the back of his hand. Not enough to hold. Just enough.
He didn’t move away.
He turned his hand over, and their fingers threaded together like they’d done it a thousand times before.
She was trembling.
So was he.
Neither looked at each other.
And still—
The electricity in that quiet contact was enough to set their blood on fire.
Callum spoke first.
“Leigh.”
She looked at him.
His voice was low. “I want you.”
Her breath caught.
“But not just... like that. I want to know you. I want to learn your silences and your bad days and what songs make you cry.”
She couldn’t speak.
She didn’t have to.
Her hand tightened around his.
And slowly, so slowly it felt like the earth might stop spinning, she leaned into him.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and she rested her head against his chest.
No kiss.
No need.
Just two people, sitting in the dark, breathing the same air and not feeling alone.
And that was everything.
Later, when he walked her back to her door, neither of them said goodbye.
She turned at the top step.
He looked up at her, rain beginning to fall again.
And this time—this time—she leaned down and pressed her lips to his cheek.
Soft. Real. Terrifying.
She pulled back quickly. “Goodnight.”
Callum stood there, frozen in place.
Then—softly, like a vow—
“Goodnight, Leigh.”
But when she closed the door, she leaned against it and clutched her chest.
Because she could feel it happening.
The fall.
The want.
The danger of deep love.
And she wasn’t sure if she’d survive it.
- Writer
