Page 23 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

CALVIN

The bar door closes behind me and I’m walking into the summer night, jealousy burning hot in my chest.

Adrian fucking Lowe. Leaning across the bar at Maren like he had any right to be that close to her. Making her laugh. Watching him check her out every time she turned around made me want to throw him out of the bar.

I head down the path toward the cabins, gravel crunching under my feet. The moon’s bright enough to see by, though the Douglas firs cast shadows across the dirt trail. My hands are clenched into fists at my sides, and I force them to relax.

This is ridiculous. I have no claim on Maren. We’re not together. We’re neighbors. Neighbors who dance around whatever this thing is between us without ever acknowledging it directly.

But walking in and seeing him make her laugh, seeing the way he looked at her lit something possessive in me. Made me want to walk back in there and stake some kind of claim I don’t have.

And the way he brought up Seattle, that knowing look when he mentioned my “professor charm.” Making sure Maren heard it. As if I was even that guy anymore.

By the time I reach my cabin, I strip off my shirt, toss it on a chair, and stand there in the dark for a moment. The image won’t leave me alone—Adrian leaning close, Maren fighting not to laugh. He’s smooth in that academic way, all the right references and the expensive clothes.

I grab my laptop from the table, needing something to do with this restless energy. But instead of the conference presentation, I open a new browser window and type: “Elias Shaw first edition.”

Because she’d stopped in the rain when I mentioned him. Because of how her face lit up when we talked about poetry. Because maybe I need to show her what she means to me since I can’t seem to say it.

Most of the links are to out-of-print listings, astronomical prices for books that probably sit on collectors’ shelves, unread.

But there—a small bookstore in Seattle. Red Fern Rare Books.

They have a signed first edition of “The Burned Hour,” Shaw’s breakthrough collection.

The one that made him famous before he disappeared into obscurity and alcohol.

In-store pickup only. No shipping. They open at nine.

I send a message through the store website and close the laptop, already knowing I’m going to do this. The drive, the expense, all of it. For the chance to see her face when she opens it.

I get ready for bed mechanically. Brush teeth, strip down to boxers, set my alarm even though I know I’ll be awake before dawn anyway. The laptop sits closed on the table with the bookstore’s page still bookmarked.

Once in bed, I lie staring at the ceiling, thinking about tomorrow’s drive. About what I’ll say when I give her the book. About whether she’ll understand what it means. Not just the book itself, but the gesture.

Sleep comes in fragments. I dream of rain and poetry and the way she looked at me across the bar. That expression I couldn’t quite read: guarded and guilty and something else I couldn’t name.

I’m on the road before sunrise, chasing my headlights south toward Seattle.

The coffee from the gas station tastes like burnt rubber, but I drink it anyway, needing the caffeine or the punishment.

The familiar stretch of I-5 unrolls beneath my tires—dense forest giving way to suburbs, suburbs bleeding into city.

The morning fog sits heavy over the Sound, turning the water into a gray smear.

I’ve made this drive hundreds of times, but it feels different now.

Like I’m traveling between two versions of myself—the Calvin who belongs in Seattle, with his university office and his book reviews and his carefully constructed life, and the Calvin who fixes things with his hands and can’t stop thinking about Maren Strand.

Traffic is light this early, just truckers and insomniacs and people running from or toward something. I wonder which category I fall into. Both, maybe.

I exit near the University of Washington, muscle memory navigating the familiar streets. There’s the coffee shop where I used to grade papers, windows still dark at this hour. The bookstore where I did my first reading, terrified and trying not to show it.

There was a time I loved being here. The academic life felt like armor.

Papers to grade, lectures to plan, enough work to fill every quiet moment.

I threw myself into being the young professor who’d published a successful book, convinced that achievement could substitute for actually dealing with grief.

But sitting at a red light, watching early morning joggers in their expensive athletic wear, I realize that version of me feels like a stranger now.

The one who performed vulnerability for audiences.

Who used work to avoid going home to watch Mom fade.

Who believed if I just stayed busy enough, successful enough, far enough away, none of it could really touch me.

Dark River caught me anyway. Or maybe Maren did.

The bookstore is tucked on a quiet corner in the U District.

Red Fern Rare Books, the sign says in faded gold lettering.

I sit in my truck for a few minutes, waiting for them to open, watching the neighborhood wake up.

A woman walks by with three dogs, all different sizes, all pulling in different directions.

At nine on the dot, I push through the door. A bell announces my arrival to what seems like an empty store.

The place smells like old paper and dust, that particular quiet of thousands of books. Shelves stretch to the ceiling, books crammed at every angle with no apparent system. Morning light filters through dusty windows.

“Be right with you,” a voice calls from somewhere in the back.

I wander while I wait, running my fingers along familiar spines. First editions mixed with reading copies, literary fiction next to genre paperbacks.

A woman emerges from behind a tower of boxes. Silver hair in a long braid, wool shawl despite the morning warmth, glasses on a chain around her neck.

“Calvin Midnight,” I say. “I’m here for the Elias Shaw book. The first edition.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re the writer. The one with the essays.”

I nod, waiting for whatever comes next.

But she just hums thoughtfully and disappears into the back. I hear boxes shifting, muttered curses, what sounds like an avalanche of paperbacks. She returns with a package wrapped in dark blue paper, tied with rough twine.

“You said it was a gift,” she says, setting it carefully on the counter. “So I wrapped it. That’ll be four hundred.”

I pull out my wallet, count out the bills. More than I should be spending, but I need Maren to have this.

“Thank you,” I say, tucking the package under my arm. “For the wrapping.”

She just nods, already turning back to her boxes.

The bell chimes as I leave, stepping back into the brightening morning. The package feels solid against my side, weighted with everything I can’t say out loud. I set it carefully on the passenger seat.

The drive back to Dark River stretches ahead, but for once I’m not running from something. I’m running toward it.

The drive back feels longer, even with the morning traffic cleared. I keep glancing at the package on the passenger seat, second-guessing myself. What if she thinks it’s too much? What if I’ve completely misread what’s between us?

When I reach Dark River, I head straight to the cabins. The property feels too quiet for late morning. Maren’s car isn’t in its usual spot. Probably at the bar already.

I sit in my truck for a moment, package in hand, debating. I could drive to The Black Lantern, give it to her in person. But that feels too public, too much pressure. This gift needs space, privacy. She should be able to open it alone, react however she needs to without me watching.

I walk to her cabin, slide a little note inside the package, and set it carefully on the wooden table beside her door where she’ll see it immediately. I stand there for a moment like an idiot, rearranging it twice to make sure it won’t fall.

Back in my own cabin, I’m restless. The walls feel too close. I should work on the sunroom, but I can’t focus on measurements and cuts right now. My mind keeps circling to what I might be starting by doing this. What it means to give her something this personal.

I grab my keys again. Hardware store. I need a few more supplies anyway, and moving feels better than sitting still.

I’m barely out of the driveway when my phone rings through the truck’s Bluetooth. Dominic’s name fills the dashboard screen.

I hit accept on the steering wheel.

“Where are you?” he asks without preamble.

“Just leaving the cabins. Why?”

“Can you come to the gym? We need to talk.”

“About what?” I ask.

“The house. And your timeline,” he says, his tone clipped.

“My timeline?” I repeat.

“We’ll talk when you get here. Just come by the gym.”

The line goes dead.

I turn toward the gym instead of the hardware store, irritation prickling at me. Why does everything have to be face-to-face with Dominic, like we’re negotiating hostile territory?

I pull up to Midnight Boxing. Dominic’s BMW is parked out front next to the usual collection of work trucks and sensible sedans. Inside, the familiar smell of sweat and leather tape hits me. A couple guys are working the heavy bags. The rhythmic thud echoes through the space.

Dominic’s in the office, feet up on Dad’s old desk, scrolling through his phone.

“Finally,” he says when I walk in. “Sit.”

I lean against the doorframe instead. “What’s this about?”

“You know what it’s about.” He swings his feet down, leans forward. “I ran into Earl from the hardware store yesterday. We were chatting and he mentioned that you’re pretty much solely keeping his store in business. Your little fixes should be done by now?”

“It’s taking longer than expected,” I say, trying to keep my tone from getting hostile.