The scent of whatever he's cooking fills the air, but it's overpowered by something else.

By him.

By his scent.

That clean, cedar-and-spice smell that's somehow so distinctly Callahan, so distinctly safe.

And then his eyes land on me, scanning me immediately, his entire focus shifting in an instant. He looks me over, like he’s assessing me for damage and cataloguing every bruise and sign of exhaustion on my body. His gaze rakes down my face, my arms, and the shadows of the fading bruises on my throat.

And just like that, I'm not thinking about the food anymore. I'm not thinking about my kitchen. I'm just thinking about him.

I barely get a word out before he's already moving toward me. "How are you feeling?"

I open my mouth, but before I can answer, his hands are already on me.

Fingers gently brushing my arm, skimming light as air over my shoulder. Tilting my chin just slightly, his thumb grazing my jaw as he angles my face up, examining the bruise along my neck. His skin is warm against mine, calloused but gentle.

His touch is so careful, so precise, and so maddeningly gentle.

Like he's afraid I'll break. Like he'd take my pain himself if he could.

"They're healing," I say softly, watching his expression.

His thumb lingers, moving back and forth gently. Then, without another word, he guides me to the couch, his palm resting solidly against the small of my back as he leads me there.

The touch is so simple, so casual. And yet, I feel it everywhere. He sits beside me, the cushions dipping beneath his weight, pulling out a small jar of salve. The scent of eucalyptus and mint wafts from the open container.

I watch him silently, the way his broad hands work the lid loose, before he dips his fingers inside, gathering just enough before bringing it to my skin.

The cool relief of it seeps in, soothing, but it's his touch that makes me shiver.

"You don't have to keep doing this," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm fine."

"You say that a lot," he murmurs back, still concentrating on his task. His breath feathers across my skin.

"I mean it."

And then, before I can look away, before I can even think of saying something else to downplay it all, he lifts a hand, cupping my chin gently, tilting my face toward his.

"Please," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "Stop saying things like that."

I swallow, hard.

"You're not a burden, Izzy," he continues, his voice so sure, so effortlessly certain. "You're worth taking care of."

Something in me shifts.

It starts small—a flutter in my chest, a tingle at the base of my spine. But then it grows, spreading through me like a slow burn, curling into every nerve ending.

My heart pounds.

I can hear it—feel it.

Thudding against my ribs, loud, insistent.

The words are right there, sitting on the edge of my tongue, begging to be spoken.

I should say them.

I need to say them.

But it's so damn hard. Because what if I say it wrong? What if I ruin whatever this is? What if he doesn't feel the same way?

And beneath all that, the questions I've been avoiding: What does it say about me that less than a week after Evan attacked me, I'm yearning for another man's touch? That after surviving an assault, my body still craves connection? That I feel most safe with a man I barely know?

The thoughts spiral, but I fight through them, forcing myself to breathe. I remember what I told Caleb in our texts earlier -- that I needed to be honest, with myself and with Cal.

I take a slow, shaky inhale. Then I finally, finally force myself to speak.

"Cal..."

My voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears it. I know he does. Because the second the name leaves my lips, he stills completely.

And then he waits. He doesn't push or rush me. He just waits. Like he knows exactly how much effort it takes me to say this.

"I don't know what this is," I admit, my hands gripping my knees to keep them from shaking. The fabric of my sweatpants bunches beneath my fingers. "I don't know if I'm just feeling this way because of what happened or because I was vulnerable or because you saved me but...I don't think I care."

He stays perfectly still.

But I see it.

His fingers twitch, like he's restraining himself.

I keep going.

"I'm confused about so many things right now. About how my body can still want after what it just went through. About how I can experience fear and desire at the sam time. "There's this voice in my head saying I should be afraid of any man's touch right now, but instead..."

I take a deep breath. "All I know is that I want to be around you. I want you to hold me. I want you to kiss me like you did before, and it scares me because I don't want to make you some kind of rebound, or take advantage of how much you've been taking care of me, but I don't know how to stop wanting you either."

I look him directly in the eyes, summoning all my courage.

"And the only difference I can figure is consent. Despite everything, despite maybe because of everything -- I trust you, Cal. With you, I have a choice. And I...I choose this. I choose you. If you want me."

The words tumble out in a rush, frantic, desperate, completely unfiltered. And when I finally stop, his expression shifts. His eyes soften. His hands slide up, cupping my face, his thumbs grazing over my cheekbones in a touch that is so light, so careful, it makes my chest ache.

He's so close now.

I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his shoulders, the war waging behind his eyes. I can smell the mint on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I want to kiss you."

His voice is so quiet, like he's saying something he shouldn't.

"Yes." The word leaves my lips, shaky but sure. His grip tightens against my skin. His jaw flexes.

“Are you sure?”

He's giving me an out, but I don't want it.

Because I know—deep in my bones, in the pit of my stomach, in the rapid pounding of my heart—that this isn't just about wanting him.

It's about needing him.

And not in the helpless, dependent way that I once mistook for love.

This is different.

This is real.

This is reclaiming my body, my desires, my right to choose who touches me and how.

"Yes," I whisper, my breath shuddering as I exhale. "Make me forget everything that happened. Help me remember what it feels like to want and be wanted, to trust and be trusted."

His eyes darken, hunger consuming the color. There’s nothing soft in them now—just want. Just me. His grip tightens on my waist. His breath hits my cheek, rough and hot, like he’s barely holding himself back.

Then, gravel-rough, deep, and sure, he says⁠—

"Fuck yes, I will."

His grip tightens and the calluses on his fingertips catch slightly against my skin. I brace myself for the kiss, for the heat, for the desperation, for my inevitable unraveling.

He pulls back.

Mutters under his breath.

"Let me just turn off the damn stove first."

And then he's gone, moving toward the kitchen. His footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor.

I sit there, my breath uneven, my pulse erratic, my body still tingling from where his hands just were. The phantom pressure of his touch lingers on my skin.

And all I can do is wait.

Wait for what comes next.

Wait for him to turn the fucking oven off.

SHE LICKED IT. I SAW GOD.

CAL