Chapter 116: Staying
Chapter Seventeen
Charlie
Sleep doesn’t happen.
Not really.
I spend most of the night staring at the ceiling of the guest room.
Then staring at the wall.
Then staring at the ceiling again.
A productive use of my time.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Cade.
The look on his face.
The way he’d leaned into my touch.
The way he’d kissed me back.
The way he’d looked at me afterward.
Like he wanted me.
Like he was terrified of wanting me.
Like I had somehow managed to crack open something he’d spent years keeping buried.
My chest tightens.
Because the kiss isn’t what keeps replaying.
Not really.
It’s what he said.
You left, and I didn’t know if you were coming back.
The words refuse to leave me alone.
At first, I’d thought he was talking about the week.
The silence.
The fact that I disappeared without explanation.
Now I’m not so sure.
Because the hurt in his voice had been too deep.
Too old.
Like he’d been reliving something.
Something far bigger than a missed phone call.
I roll onto my side and stare at the digital clock.
3:14 AM.
Wonderful.
At this rate, I’ll be unconscious by breakfast.
The memory replays again.
Cade standing in the kitchen.
Tired.
Worn down.
Looking at me like he’d been carrying something heavy all week.
Then that look of relief when he first saw me.
Brief.
Almost hidden.
But there.
The realization settles heavily in my chest.
He’d missed me.
Not just the bond.
Not just my scent.
Me.
And somehow that knowledge makes everything feel more serious.
More real.
Because attraction is easy.
Wanting someone is easy.
Trust?
Trust is different.
Trust is fragile.
And tonight I finally saw how badly I’d damaged it.
I groan and drag a pillow over my face.
“Nice job, idiot.”
The pillow offers no response.
Rude.
Sometime after four, I finally drift off.
Unfortunately, it feels like I’ve been asleep for approximately six minutes when voices wake me up.
I blink.
Confused.
Disoriented.
Then reality settles back into place.
Cade’s house.
Guest room.
Near-disastrous make-out session in the kitchen last night.
Right.
The clock reads 8:03.
Better than expected.
Not good.
But better.
I drag myself upright and run a hand through my hair.
My shirt still smells faintly like cinnamon and vanilla.
The scent hits me before I’m ready.
My stomach immediately—
No.
My stomach drops.
Because now every trace of that scent comes with memories attached.
His hands.
His breath.
His forehead against mine.
God.
This is a mess.
By the time I make it downstairs, Jordan is already sitting at the kitchen island.
Eating cereal.
Naturally.
The man consumes cereal like it’s a personality trait.
“Morning.”
I grunt.
Jordan grins. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I pour coffee.
Take a sip.
Pause.
Then look toward the stove.
Cade stands there making breakfast.
The sight punches the air from my lungs.
Not because of anything dramatic.
Because of how normal it feels.
The same way it always has.
Only now I know what kissing him feels like.
Complicating everything.
Cade glances up.
Our eyes meet.
For a second.
Maybe two.
Then he looks away.
My chest tightens.
Because that hurts.
Not intentionally.
Not maliciously.
But it hurts.
The distance is back.
The walls are back.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Enough to remind me that last night scared him.
Enough to remind me that he’s still fighting.
Jordan remains completely oblivious.
Remarkable.
Truly remarkable.
The man could witness a natural disaster and somehow miss the important part.
Breakfast is awkward.
At least for me.
Jordan talks enough for all three of us.
Which is honestly helpful.
Because every time the conversation dies, I become painfully aware of Cade sitting across from me.
Painfully aware of the way he keeps his attention fixed on his plate.
Painfully aware of the fact that neither of us knows how to talk about last night.
Jordan finally leaves around ten.
Something about helping a friend move furniture.
A terrible idea.
Perfect for Jordan.
The front door closes.
Silence settles over the house.
And suddenly it’s just Cade and me.
Again.
The tension returns instantly.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
Just there.
Existing.
Breathing.
Waiting.
I watch Cade gather dishes from the table.
Watch him carry them to the sink.
Watch him avoid looking at me.
The realization stings.
Because now I know why.
He’s protecting himself.
Not from me.
From what he feels.
That somehow hurts more.
I stand and carry my own dishes to the sink.
Cade shifts slightly when I step beside him.
Not away.
Just enough.
The movement catches my attention, the same way every tiny thing about him seems to lately.
“Cade.”
His shoulders tense.
A little.
Not much.
Enough.
“What?”
The answer comes quietly.
Careful.
Like he’s bracing himself.
I hate that.
I hate being the reason.
I set my mug down.
Then turn toward him.
Fully.
“Cade, look at me.”
His hands still.
Water continues running in the sink.
For a second, I think he’ll refuse.
Then he sighs and turns.
The exhaustion in his eyes hits me hard.
Because it’s not physical.
It’s emotional.
The kind that settles into your bones.
The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Cade’s expression tightens. “I know.”
“No.”
I shake my head. “Not the bond.”
His brows pull together. “Then what?”
“This.”
I gesture between us. “The running.”
Something flashes across his face.
Gone too quickly to fully identify.
Pain.
Maybe.
Fear.
Probably both.
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
The confession comes out quieter than I expected.
And suddenly I realize something.
He’s being honest.
Not defensive.
Not stubborn.
Honest.
The realization shifts something inside me.
Because for the first time, I understand.
Cade isn’t pushing me away because he doesn’t care.
He’s pushing me away because he does.
Too much.
I take a slow breath.
Then another.
“I want you to believe me.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Believe what?”
“That I’m not going anywhere.”
Silence.
Complete.
Total.
The words hang between us.
Heavy.
Important.
Dangerous.
Because there it is.
The thing we’ve been dancing around.
Not the attraction.
Not the bond.
Trust.
Cade’s gaze drops.
Then returns.
Something vulnerable flickers across his face.
Gone almost instantly.
But I catch it.
And suddenly I understand.
Not fully.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough to see the shape of the wound.
Enough to realize this isn’t really about me disappearing for a week.
Not entirely.
It’s older than that.
Deeper than that.
The week just ripped the scab off.
“Cade.”
His jaw tightens.
“I know I screwed up.”
An understatement.
A massive understatement.
“I should’ve called.”
He doesn’t argue.
Because we both know it’s true.
“I should’ve texted.”
Still nothing.
“I should’ve done a lot of things differently.”
The silence stretches.
Then Cade finally speaks, “You should have.”
Fair.
Very fair.
I nod. “I know.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then I step closer.
Not enough to crowd him.
Just enough.
“I can’t change last week.”
His eyes remain fixed on mine.
Guarded.
Wary.
Hopeful.
All at once.
“But I can change what happens next.”
Something shifts in his expression.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But there.
The smallest crack.
The smallest opening.
I continue before I lose my nerve.
“I’m done running.”
The words feel important.
Because they’re true.
For the first time since all this started, I know they’re true.
No more disappearing.
No more hiding behind work.
No more pretending.
No more waiting for things to magically get easier.
Because they won’t.
Not unless I stop making them harder.
Cade stares at me.
Long enough that I start questioning every life choice I’ve ever made.
Then he looks away first.
Not because he’s dismissing me.
Because he’s thinking.
I can practically see it happening.
The conflict.
The fear.
The hope.
The want.
All of it.
Eventually, he exhales.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like the air weighs something.
“Charlie.”
The way he says my name makes my chest ache.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
The admission lands harder than anything else.
Because Cade always knows what he’s doing.
That’s who he is.
The responsible one.
The dependable one.
The person everyone leans on.
Hearing him admit he doesn’t know something feels strangely intimate.
I smile softly. “Good.”
His eyebrows rise. “Good?”
“Yeah.”
I shrug. “Neither do I.”
To my surprise, a laugh escapes him.
Small.
Brief.
But real.
The sound warms something inside me.
Because there he is.
The real Cade.
Not the scared one.
Not the guarded one.
Just Cade.
And God.
I missed him.
The realization settles quietly into my chest.
Not dramatic.
Not overwhelming.
Certain.
For the first time since this whole mess started, I think I finally understand what Cade is afraid of.
Not the bond.
Not Jordan.
Not even the age gap.
He’s afraid of being left.
And after the look on his face last night—
After hearing the hurt in his voice—
After realizing just how deeply my silence affected him—
I don’t think I’d survive being the person who does that to him again.