Callie

With the morning sunlight streaming through the blinds. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in slow, lazy circles, trying to convince myself I hadn't imagined the night before.

But I hadn't. He was real.

Grayson Carter was real.

The man in the kitchen, a man with rough stubble along a hardened jawline.

I sat up, clutching the sheets. My heart had been playing a ridiculous rhythm ever since I stepped into that kitchen. I shouldn't be this affected. It had been years. I was just a kid the last time he saw me. He was Mia's dad. Her off-limits, twice-my-age dad who had no business looking like he'd stepped out of a damn rugged calendar shoot.

I shoved the thoughts away and got up. My suitcase lay half-unpacked at the foot of the bed, clothes spilling out in messy chaos.

I tugged on a tank top and shorts, twisted my curls into a messy bun and headed downstairs, determined to act normal. Like my heart hadn't tried to beat its way out of my chest last night.

Mia was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into two mugs.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," she teased, pushing one toward me.

"Morning." I grabbed the cup, grateful for the distraction. "Where's your dad?"

"Garage, probably. He gets up insanely early to work on bikes. Says it's therapeutic."

Therapeutic. Right. My image of him, smudged with grease, silent and towering in the kitchen didn't exactly scream peaceful meditation. He'd barely looked at me. But when he had... something in his gaze shifted. Like he was trying to place me.

Like the memory of the girl I'd been, didn't match the woman standing in front of him.

"What are you doing today?" I asked, sipping the coffee. Strong and bitter

"Meeting Lexie for lunch. Want to come?"

I shook my head. "I think I'll hang around here today. Unpack and maybe explore."

Mia shrugged. "Suit yourself. Oh, and if you run into Dad... don't let him intimidate you. He acts gruff, but he's harmless."

I smiled weakly. Harmless? Not even close.

Once she left, I wandered to the back porch, coffee in hand, and leaned on the railing. The garage was visible from here, the door half open, music faintly leaking out. I could see the outline of his back, broad and hunched over the engine of a Harley.

I knew I shouldn't go near him.

I went anyway.

The gravel crunched under my bare feet as I crossed the driveway. The smell of oil and metal hit me like a wave. He didn't look up when I stopped in the open doorway.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual.

He paused, wiped his hands on a rag, and turned. His gaze settled on me, slowly, like he was taking inventory.

"Callie," he said. His voice was deep. "Didn't think you'd be up so early."

"Jet lag or maybe your coffee."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "Mia still makes it like tar, huh?"

"Some things never change."

But everything else had.

He looked different. His eyes, blue and too damn observant, lingered on me longer than they should have.

"You grew up," he said, almost to himself.

"So did everyone."

He let out a low chuckle. "Fair enough."

"Are you still riding?" I asked, nodding to the bike.

"Always. Builds character. Keeps my hands busy."

I leaned against the doorframe, ignoring the warning bells in my head. "I remember you teaching Mia how to ride. She almost crashed into the mailbox."

"She still has no coordination," he muttered, shaking his head. "Stubborn as hell, too."

I laughed softly. "Guess some things don't change."

His gaze dropped briefly to my legs, then back up, too fast. But not fast enough. My skin prickled.

"So what are your plans this summer?" he asked, voice rough.

"Mostly just... breathing. Getting away from the city. Trying not to burn out."

He nodded. "Smart. This place will slow you down. Whether you like it or not."

I swallowed.

"You don't look like her," he murmured.

I blinked. "Who?"

"The Callie I remember. You were always in pigtails, running barefoot, begging for popsicles."

I smiled.

I stepped back. "I should let you get back to it."

"Sure. Be careful around here. The garage gets slippery."

I turned and walked back to the house, my heart hammering. Not because of what he said.

But because of how he looked at me.

Later that afternoon, I sat on the back steps with my sketchpad. The sun was setting, casting gold across the sky. The door creaked open behind me.

Grayson stepped out, wiping his hands with a rag again. "You draw?"

"Sometimes. Help me think."

He sat beside me without asking. The heat of him was overwhelming.

"Are you always this quiet now?" he asked.

"Only when I'm thinking."

He glanced at the pad. "What are you thinking about?"

I met his eyes. "Whether I still belong here."

His brow furrowed. "This town? This house?"

"Both."

He looked away. "The town hasn't changed much. But you... you're not a kid anymore. Maybe that's what makes it feel different."

I turned the page and started sketching. Not because I had an idea, but because I needed to do something with my hands. His presence made me restless.

"You still fix everything yourself?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Old habits die hard."

I nodded. The silence stretched again.

"I should go inside," I said eventually.

"Yeah, you should."

But I didn't move. Neither did he.

We just sat there, side by side, on a porch that suddenly felt too small.

Callie

The clock read 1:47 AM.

I'd been tossing and turning for hours, my thoughts a mess of heat and memory and the way Grayson Carter had looked at me earlier, like he was trying not to look at all.

I gave up on sleep and slipped downstairs, sketchbook under my arm, phone in the other.

The house was dark and silent, the kind of quietness that settles deep in your bones. The only light came from the dim undercabinet glow in the kitchen.

Instead of heading there again, I sank into the living room couch. The air was warm, humming with summer humidity that clung to the skin, and I curled my legs beneath me as I flipped to a blank page.

Lines flowed beneath my fingers before I even knew what I was drawing... broad shoulders, calloused hands, a tired gaze. It was like muscle memory took over.

I didn't hear him at first.

The soft tread of his steps on the hardwood floor made me freeze. Then his voice, low and rough;

"Can't sleep again?"

I turned my head slowly. Grayson stood in the archway, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded navy T-shirt. Hair tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble, barefoot. Not as shirtless as last time but somehow more dangerous like this. More real.

"Something like that," I murmured.

His eyes fell to my sketchbook. "You are still drawing."

"Helps clear my head."

He walked farther in and stood a few feet away, hesitating like he wasn't sure if he should sit or leave. I could see the debate play out on his shoulders. I didn't say anything.

Finally, he lowered himself into the armchair across from me.

"What's keeping you up?" he asked.

I let out a soft breath, surprised he cared. "New place. Weird memories. The usual."

"I thought you liked being here."

"I did," I said. "I do. It's just... I'm not the same anymore. And everything else is. That's a weird feeling."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I get that."

We sat in silence for a few moments, the only sound was the slow ticking of the clock on the wall.

"You didn't used to be this quiet," I said without thinking.

His eyes flicked to mine. "You didn't used to be this grown up."

I felt something shift. The air between us wasn't just tense, it was sharp and magnetic.

I swallowed. "Didn't think I'd change that much."

"You didn't change," he said. "You just... grew into yourself."

The compliment hit deeper than I expected. He looked tired, eyes shadowed. But he wasn't looking at me like a father-figure or a family friend. He was looking at me like a man who noticed too much.

I flipped the sketchpad closed, the drawing too raw to let him see.

"You're still working crazy hours?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Trying not to. Mia gets on my case when I burn out."

I smiled faintly. "She worries."

"She gets that from her mom," he said. "But she's right. I've been trying to slow down."

His gaze drifted to the window, the dim glow of the backyard just visible through the curtains.

"You used to sit out there with Mia for hours," he said.

"Yeah. Until your sprinkler timer went off and soaked us."

He chuckled under his breath. It was low and warm, and it made something flutter in my chest.

"You girls were chaos," he said. "But it was the good kind."

The room fell quiet again. I could feel my pulse in my ears.

Then the couch cushion dipped slightly as I shifted, curling up tighter. The sketchbook slid to the side. I didn't even realize my eyes were drooping until everything started to blur.

"Callie?"

I blinked.

I must've nodded off. I was still curled on the couch, the sketchpad beside me. But Grayson was closer now, kneeling beside the armrest, hand reaching toward my face.

His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek. It was gentle. Reverent. Like he didn't even know he was doing it.

And I didn't stop him.

My heart raced when our eyes met.

His hand froze, still tangled in the edge of my hair.

I didn't speak. Neither did he.

Something cracked open inside me, a want that had nothing to do with rebellion and everything to do with being seen.

Then his expression shifted. Regret. Restraint.

He stood quickly. Too quickly.

"You should get some sleep," he said, voice tight.

I nodded, sitting up. "Yeah. Right."

He hesitated again. Like there was something else he wanted to say. But instead, he turned and walked away.

I sat there for a long time after he was gone, my hand still tingling from where his fingers had touched my skin.

I knew we had just crossed a line.

Even if we hadn't said a word.