Thick bands of ink snake up his strong, veined forearms, black and gray designs etched into his skin, bold and intricate. I've never seen them this close before. Never had a full view of the way they wrap around his muscles, shifting with every subtle movement. One design appears to be a compass, another some kind of military insignia—details I hadn't been able to make out from a distance.

I swallow hard.

"What do you think?" he repeats, his tone amused.

I think I'm in so much trouble.

I swallow. Hard.

"...I don't know."

His smirk returns. "You don't remember?"

I groan, covering my face with both hands. "Just tell me."

He laughs, amused as hell, clearly enjoying my mortification. "Well... you told me I smelled like mulch."

My hands drop. "I did what?"

“And you did get naked in front of me."

I choke on air. "WHAT?!"

"I mean, just a little," he says. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss.

I stare at him, horrified, my face burning with embarrassment.

He finally gives in, shaking his head. "Relax, Russo. Nothing happened. You came home, got into bed, and pretty much immediately passed out."

I exhale, pressing a hand to my chest. "Jesus. Don't do that."

"Too easy."

I narrow my eyes at him. The tension drains from my shoulders, leaving behind only the dull throb of my hangover.

"So...why'd you stay?" I ask, taking another sip of coffee. The rich liquid warms me from the inside, helping to clear some of the fog from my brain.

Callahan shrugs, as if it's no big deal. "Didn't have a car. Didn't want to leave you alone in case you got sick."

I feel instantly guilty. "I'm so sorry. You didn't have to do that."

He tilts his head slightly, watching me. "You really don't need to apologize."

"But—"

"I made the decision," he cuts in. "I wouldn't have done what I did if I didn't want to."

I stare at him, digesting that.

The way he says it—so matter-of-fact, so solid—makes my chest tighten in a way I don't fully understand. There's something about his certainty that's both intimidating and incredibly attractive.

I clear my throat, needing to shift gears.

"How did you even get me home?" I ask, setting my coffee down. The mug makes a soft thud against the wooden table. "I probably wasn't capable of giving directions."

"Nope. You were a little busy mumbling about how much you wanted tacos."

I groan. "Kill me."

"Nah," he says. "Figured it out. Pulled up your address from the company directory."

"Oh. That was...smart."

He just shrugs. We eat in companionable silence for a while, and I have to admit—his food is good. The eggs are perfectly cooked, the bacon crispy but not burnt, the toast lightly buttered and golden.

"This is really good," I say, gesturing to my plate. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

Callahan lifts a shoulder. "When you're alone long enough, you learn a thing or two."

I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. There's something about the way he says it. Something that makes me wonder just how long he's been alone. The casualness of his tone can't quite hide the hint of loneliness beneath. I take another bite, chewing slowly, then set my fork down.

"I don't think I properly thanked you for yesterday," I say quietly. "For everything with Evan."

Callahan shakes his head immediately. "You don't have to thank me for being decent to you."

I press my lips together, fingers fidgeting with my napkin. "I don't know...I guess I feel like I do."

His eyes lock onto mine. "Well, that's something we can work on."

I huff a small laugh, picking up my coffee. "Now you sound like Evan."

The mood shifts instantly.

The teasing drains out of his expression.

His eyes darken as his entire demeanor changes. "I'm nothing like that scumbag," he says, voice dangerously low.

I freeze, mug halfway to my lips, suddenly realizing my mistake.

He leans in slightly. "He wants to 'work on you’ to tear you down, Izzy. I want to build you up." He tilts his head. "There's a big difference."

I feel my throat tighten, an unexpected emotion washing over me.

I don't know what to say.

I don't even know what I'm feeling.

Because he's right.

Because Callahan is everything Evan isn't.

Because Callahan is everything I've ever wanted, and I'm not even sure I realized it until right now. The thought hits me with surprising clarity, cutting through the lingering haze of my hangover.

I hear the chime of my phone turning back on.

I jump at the distraction, grateful for the out.

"I should check my messages," I say, already standing up. "Amanda might be worried."

I all but run into my bedroom, closing the door behind me like I can physically shut out my own humiliation. The soft click of the latch feels like the only barrier between me and a truth I'm not ready to face.

I grab my phone from where it's charging, the screen flashing a slew of missed messages.

Amanda (12:37 AM)

U alive???

Amanda (12:59 AM)

Bitch. Answer me.

Amanda (1:22 AM)

If you don't text me back I'm gonna assume Callahan murdered you with his stupidly perfect arms and hid the body.

Amanda (2:00 AM)

I swear to God if I wake up and have to read about you on the news...

I roll my eyes and fire off a quick response, thumbs tapping against the screen.

I'm alive. Just hungover as hell.

Amanda's reply is instant, my phone vibrating in my hand.

THANK GOD. I thought I was gonna have to identify you in a morgue.

I snort, shaking my head.

But before I can respond, something else pops up.

A new message.

From Caleb.

I stare at the notification for a second too long before tapping into it, my heart beating a little faster.

Caleb

Good morning, pretty girl.

Did you sleep well?

Eat breakfast. And before you even think it—coffee ≠ breakfast.

I hesitate.

And then, heart pounding and dread creeping up my spine, I scroll up.

And I see exactly what I did last night.

Oh. Oh no.

The messages are right there.

Me practically begging him to tell me how to touch myself.

Me whimpering about how I wanted him inside me.

Me losing my damn mind in a way that was entirely too revealing.

I groan, dropping my forehead onto my knee. The embarrassment is physical, a hot wave washing over me.

And then I see the worst part.

Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, in one of my drunkest moments, I called him Cal.

Panic shoots through me.

Because that's way too close for comfort.

That's way too close to the very real man just outside my bedroom, cleaning up the breakfast he made me. The man who saw me drunk, vulnerable, and half-naked and still treated me with more respect than my own boyfriend.

Before I can spiral any further, I hear his voice through the door.

"You good in there?"

I jump slightly, my phone slipping from my hands before I scramble to tuck it into my pocket. The fabric of my sweatpants muffles the notification sound as another message comes in.