Chapter 54
Elena's POV
I stared at him, still half-convinced I'd imagined it. The words hung in the air between us like something fragile.
"You... you're not leaving?"
"Hector's drunk. Work got canceled." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Going back to the hotel makes no sense."
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, suddenly aware of how much of a mess I must look. "But this place only has one bedroom—"
"The couch is fine." He walked past me toward the kitchen area, already scanning the room like he was cataloging exits and safety measures. Checking the heating vents, testing the lock on the door.
"Have you eaten?" The question came out small.
He paused, hand still on the heating control panel. Didn't look at me. "Have you?"
I shook my head, realized he wasn't watching, and said quietly, "No."
"There should be something in the kitchen. Sample units come stocked." He turned, and I saw the careful blankness in his expression. "I can grab takeout if you'd rather—"
"No." I moved toward the kitchen before I could overthink it. "I'll see what's in the fridge."
I needed to do something with my hands.
The kitchen was pristine, untouched. I found some pre-packaged beef burger meals in the freezer, fumbling with the microwave as I tried to heat them up.
Behind me, I heard Caleb settle onto the couch, the soft rustle of fabric as he took off his coat.
The microwave beeped. I pulled open the door too quickly.
My finger hit the scorching metal edge.
I gasped, jerking my hand back. The burn flared white-hot across my fingertip, angry red already blooming on the skin.
Before I could even register moving, Caleb was there. His hand closed around my wrist—not rough, but leaving zero room for argument—and pulled me to the sink.
"Don't—" I started.
Cold water hit my finger. He reached past my shoulder to adjust the faucet, his other hand still gripping my wrist to keep it under the stream. I was trapped between him and the counter, his chest against my back, his arm extended alongside mine.
I could feel the heat of him through my clothes. Where his chest touched my shoulder blades, the warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my shirt. His scent wrapped around me: ice and snow, cedar wood, something darker underneath that I couldn't name but knew I'd recognize anywhere.
My heart hammered. I couldn't tell if it was from the pain or his proximity or the way his chin was nearly resting on top of my head.
"Keep it there." His voice was low, rough. The vibration of it traveled through his chest into my back.
I stared at the running water. At his hand holding mine steady. At the way we were positioned—like he'd caged me in without meaning to.
"I'm fine," I managed. My voice came out thin.
"You're not." His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist. "Another thirty seconds."
The silence stretched. I became acutely aware of every point where we touched. His breath stirred the hair at my temple.
This was too close. This was nothing like the careful distance he'd been maintaining all night.
My mind flashed back to that night. When I'd been drunk and stupid and thrown myself at him. When I'd seen his eyes flash gold and his jaw go tight with restraint before he'd locked himself away from me.
"Still want to be with Damon?"
The question came out of nowhere, quiet and devastating.
I shook my head violently. The movement made the back of my skull bump his jaw, and I heard him exhale sharply.
"No," I whispered. "Not anymore."
His fingers tightened fractionally on my wrist. The water kept running, cold and constant. Neither of us moved to shut it off.
"Then..." He paused, and I felt the tension in his body change, coiling tighter. "What about someone else?"
My breath caught. The question hung between us, heavy with implications I was terrified to examine.
Was he asking about himself? Or testing to see if I'd moved on to some other convenient option—another man to fill the Damon-shaped hole in my life?
I opened my mouth. Closed it. My brain had gone completely blank except for the screaming awareness of him pressed against me, of the careful control in his voice, of the way his pulse was hammering just as hard as mine where our wrists touched under the water.
"I—"
My phone exploded into sound.
I jumped. Caleb released me immediately, stepping back so fast. I fumbled for the phone with my wet hand, saw my father's name on the screen, and felt ice flood my veins.
I knew what he'd want to ask.
I hit decline. Turned off the phone entirely.
When I looked up, Caleb had retreated to the far side of the kitchen. His expression had shuttered again, that careful blankness firmly back in place.
"The food's ready," he said quietly. "I'll get it."
---
We ate in silence on opposite ends of the couch. I'd divided the burger meals unevenly—giving him most of it, keeping only a small portion for myself. He didn't comment, just accepted the plate and ate with methodical efficiency.
It should have been awkward. The quiet, the distance between us, the question still hanging unanswered in the air. But it wasn't.
My racing heart slowly settled.
Caleb wasn't asking me to explain. Wasn't demanding I justify my feelings or defend my choices. He was just here. Existing in the same space, not requiring anything from me except my presence.
It was so different from Damon. With Damon, even the silences felt loaded. Like I was supposed to be entertaining him, soothing him, anticipating his needs. Like my value was measured in how well I could read his moods and adjust accordingly.
Caleb just sat there, eating methodically, occasionally glancing at the windows like he was checking for threats. Protecting me. Not controlling me.
The difference felt enormous.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Something flickered in his expression—too fast for me to read. "You shouldn't have to thank me for basic decency."
But we both knew it wasn't basic decency. It was so much more than that.
---
After we finished eating, I excused myself to the bathroom. The mirror showed me exactly what I'd feared: swollen eyes, blotchy cheeks, a complete mess.
I washed my face with cold water, tried to make myself presentable. Changed into the sleep clothes I'd hastily packed—soft cotton pants and an oversized sweater.
When I came out, Caleb was still on the couch, but he'd turned off most of the lights. Just one lamp burning in the corner, casting soft shadows.
I moved toward the bedroom, then stopped.
"Caleb?"
"Mm?"
"There's no extra bedding."
He looked up from his phone. Blinked. "What?"
"It's a sample unit. They only furnished the bedroom." I gestured helplessly toward the couch. "There's nothing for..."
I watched understanding dawn. He glanced at the couch—barely six feet long—then at his own frame, which had to be well over six-three.
"It's fine," he said immediately.
"You can't sleep on that. You won't fit."