Page 20 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

MAREN

Calvin’s been active in the group chat, responding to every question, weighing in on decisions.

But I’ve barely seen him in person since our conversation in the sunroom several days ago.

Just glimpses—him hauling lumber to the house this morning, working on the porch yesterday afternoon (shirt off in the heat, not that I was looking), his truck leaving for the hardware store.

It’s like we’re living parallel lives, connected by text but avoiding actual contact.

A faint sound drifts from the direction of the shared kitchen. The soft scrape of something on the counter, Calvin moving quietly.

As if pulled by some external force, I slide out of bed, wearing just my sleep shorts and an old tank top that’s been washed thin. The cabin floor is cool under my bare feet as I cross to the door.

The shared kitchen glows with soft light when I push through the door. Calvin stands at the counter with his back to me, slowly pouring hot water over coffee grounds in a pour-over setup. Papers scattered beside him, a pen tucked behind his ear.

“Can’t sleep either?”

He startles, nearly dropping the kettle. “You startled me.”

“Sorry.” I step fully into the kitchen, hyperaware of my bare legs, my thin shirt. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

His eyes do a quick sweep before he catches himself, jerking his gaze back to my face.

His hair is sticking up in places like he’s been running his hands through it while working.

There’s a crease on his cheek from leaning on his hand, and ink stains on his fingers.

He looks softer somehow, less guarded in the middle of the night.

“Sorry, did I wake you? I tried to be quiet.”

“You were quiet. I was already awake.” I move to the cabinet for a glass, reaching up to the second shelf.

The movement makes my tank top ride up, exposing a strip of skin above my sleep shorts.

I feel his eyes on me. The awareness of his gaze makes my skin prickle and I instinctively hold my hand up to my side to obscure the tattoo. “Insomnia club meeting?”

“Apparently.” He finishes pouring the water, sets the kettle down. “Though I brought work to mine.”

I fill the glass with water from the tap, taking a long drink before glancing at his papers. His handwriting is cramped, with lots of crossed-out lines. “What’s all this?”

“Conference presentation. Found Words Festival at the end of August.”

“Right,” I say. “You mentioned that the other night. The academic circuit?”

“Unfortunately.” He lifts the pour-over, sets it in the sink. “They want me to talk about my work. The book, the essays. And of course they emailed yesterday asking what I’m working on now.”

“Let me guess. You told them you’re deep into your next masterpiece.”

“Of course.” He smiles. “It’s called ‘How to Bullshit Your Way Through Academia.’ Very meta.”

I laugh. “Chapter one: Midnight Coffee and Existential Dread?”

“Chapter two: Why Everything I Write Sounds Like I Swallowed a Thesaurus.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Though honestly, that might be an improvement at this point.”

I lean against the counter. “So what are you actually going to tell them?”

“The truth, probably. That I haven’t written anything real in years. That I’m a fraud coasting on one good book I wrote in a grief fugue.”

“Don’t you write articles and essays? Things like that?” I twist the glass in my hands. “Susan was always mentioning something you’d published. Made us all read that piece about Pacific Northwest Gothic.”

“Magazine pieces, yeah. Essays here and there. Enough to keep my department happy.” He pushes a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “But no books. No real work. The conference people want to hear about the next book. The next big thing.”

“And I take it from our conversation the other day that there isn’t one?”

“Not even close.” He looks down at his coffee like it holds answers. “The first book came from this desperate place. Like if I didn’t write it, I’d drown. Now I just feel empty. Like I used up all my words on Dad and have nothing left for Mom.”

“That sounds exhausting. The drowning part.”

“It was.” He meets my eyes briefly, then looks away. “Is. Sometimes still is.”

“Well, I’d offer advice about the lack of book, but since I told you I’m not writing much anymore, that’d be a bit hypocritical.”

“You said you still write though. Sometimes.”

“Fragments. Observations. Shopping lists.” I wave a dismissive hand. “Nothing that adds up to anything.”

“Most things start as fragments.” He shifts his weight, the movement bringing him incrementally closer. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. “Maybe you’re just collecting pieces. Maybe they’ll fit together eventually.”

“Maybe,” I say. Maybe you should stop looking at me like that.

I take a large gulp of water.

He sets his mug down with a soft clink, finally looks at me. “What’s keeping you up?”

“Oh, you know. Memorial stuff, work, life.” I shrug, staring at the counter, picking at a seam in its edge. “Just one of those nights where your brain won’t shut off.”

“I know those nights,” he says, and something in his voice makes me finally look up. He’s watching me with those dark eyes, and the kitchen suddenly feels too small.

“So this conference,” I say, needing words between us because the silence feels too dangerous. “Then back to Seattle for the semester?”

“That’s the plan.” He’s looking at his papers, not at me. “Late August. Pack up and go.”

Susan’s memorial, then he’s gone shortly after that. Back to his real life. Back to students and faculty meetings and a world that doesn’t include me.

The thought shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

We stand there, me by the sink, him by his papers, maybe two feet between us but it feels like inches. I can see the rise and fall of his chest. The way his jaw clenches and unclenches like he’s fighting something.

“Well,” I say finally, voice not quite steady. “I should let you work on your presentation. Try to get some sleep.”

His eyes are dark in this light, focused on me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too hot. I watch his hand flex against the counter, watch him swallow hard.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “That’s... yeah.”

“Goodnight, Calvin,” I say.

“Night, Maren.”

I make myself walk to the door normally, even though every cell in my body wants to turn back. At the doorway, I glance over my shoulder. He’s still watching me, still gripping that counter like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.

Back in my cabin, I slip inside quietly and crawl back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. Laila lifts her head from where she’s sprawled across the foot of the bed, tail thumping a few times in greeting before she settles. She lets out a contented sigh and drops her head back down.

I lie there staring at the ceiling, but sleep is even further away now. My skin still feels too hot, my body wound tight with wanting something I can’t have. All I can think about is the way he looked at me.

Laila’s snoring starts up again, soft and rhythmic. Usually it helps me sleep. Tonight, even that’s not enough to quiet my racing thoughts.

Thursday night at The Black Lantern is quiet. A handful of regulars, a couple of summer people, enough to keep me working but not rushed. Lark sits on a stool at the end of the bar, her injured ankle propped on a milk crate, laptop open as she updates our supplier orders.

Her doctor had cleared her for “part-time, no prolonged standing,” which in Lark’s mind translated to a full shift with strategic sitting. Keeping her off that ankle has been a full-time job in itself.

“I can help pour,” she’d insisted earlier, already reaching for the beer taps.

“You can help by doing the ordering I’ve been putting off for a week,” I’d countered, physically steering her to the stool. “Doctor said minimal standing, not ‘stand until it hurts then sit for five minutes.’”

She’d grumbled but agreed, mostly because we both knew I’d send her home if she pushed it.

Now she types away, occasionally asking me about quantities while I serve the trickle of customers. Old Eddie’s at his usual spot, nursing his Rainier and shot. A couple of Seattle tech workers debate IPAs at a corner table. The jukebox plays Tom Petty low enough for conversation.

The door opens and Adrian Lowe walks in.

Of course he does. Because my night was going too smoothly.

He’s wearing linen in that way that says ‘I summer in the Hamptons’—crisp white shirt, tidy blonde hair, and the kind of tan that comes from leisure, not labor.

He scans the bar like he’s assessing it for a review, then spots me and his face lights up with recognition.

He makes his way over, sliding onto a stool directly in front of where I’m working.

“Maren! Wonderful to see you again. I was hoping you’d be working tonight.”

The way he says it, like he’s been thinking about coming here specifically to see me, makes my skin crawl just a little. But I paste on my professional smile.

“Adrian.” I finish pouring a beer for another customer and slide it down the bar. “What can I get you?”

“What do you recommend?” He leans forward on his elbows, getting comfortable. “I’m sure you have excellent taste.”

There’s something in how he says ‘excellent taste’ that feels like he’s not just talking about drinks. I ignore it, keeping my smile professional.

“Depends what you’re in the mood for. Beer? Cocktail? Something stronger?”

“Surprise me. I trust your judgment completely.” He watches me intently, like I’m about to perform a magic trick.

I turn to the bottles, considering. Part of me wants to give him something basic, a vodka soda, just to see his face.

But my pride won’t let me. I grab the rye from the middle shelf and start building an Old Fashioned.

The familiar motions—muddling sugar and bitters, adding the whiskey, then ice, stirring slowly—give me something to focus on besides his watching eyes.