Page 37 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

CALVIN

I wake to the feeling of her breath against my chest, warm and steady. Maren’s tucked into my side, one leg thrown over mine, her hair a wild tangle across my shoulder. Morning light filters through the cabin windows, probably close to nine from the angle of it.

She shifts slightly, pressing closer, and I tighten my arm around her. Her skin is soft under my palm. Last night feels like a fever dream, but the evidence is everywhere: her clothes scattered across my floor, the lingering taste of her on my lips.

Just thinking about last night, the sounds she made, the way she came apart under my hands. Fuck. I’m already hard, and she’s not even awake yet.

“Stop thinking so loud,” she mumbles against my chest, voice rough with sleep.

“Didn’t know you were awake,” I say, running my hand down her spine.

“I’m not.” She burrows deeper into my side, her leg sliding higher across mine. “This is a dream. Shut up and let me enjoy it.”

I run my fingers through her hair. She makes a small contented sound that does something to my chest, something warm and dangerous. Something that feels suspiciously like the kind of feeling that makes you do things like buy houses and make promises.

“Good dream or bad dream?” I ask.

She lifts her head, eyes still heavy with sleep but already sparking with mischief. “Depends. Are you going to make me coffee, or are you going to lie here memorizing the ceiling?”

“I was memorizing you, actually.”

“Oh.” Her smile goes soft, almost vulnerable, and she ducks her head back against my chest like she needs to hide that much feeling. “That’s... acceptable.”

She stretches against me, cat-like, pressing the full length of her body along mine. I trail my fingers down her spine, counting vertebrae, learning the geography of her back. There’s a spot just above her hip that makes her shiver, and I file that information away for later.

“Should we get up?” she says after a moment, but she makes no move to get up, just melts further into me.

“Not yet,” I murmur against her hair. “Let’s just... stay here for a bit.”

She tilts her face up to look at me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I pull her up for a kiss. It’s slow and lazy, unhurried.

“This is nice,” she sighs contentedly.

“Just nice?”

“Fishing for compliments already?” She traces lazy patterns on my skin, circles and swirls that make my breath catch. “Fine. This is perfect. You’re perfect. Your bed is significantly better than mine, and I’m never leaving.”

“Good,” I say, meaning it. “Don’t leave.”

“Smooth talker.” But she’s smiling as she says it. “Though I really do need coffee soon or I might die.”

“So dramatic.”

“You don’t know me before coffee,” she says. “I’m basically feral.”

We stay like that for a while longer, quiet and comfortable, listening to the birds outside.

Eventually she sighs and pushes up. She grabs my t-shirt from the floor and pulls it on before gathering the rest of her clothes.

The shirt hits mid-thigh, and something about her in my clothes makes my chest tight.

“I need coffee, but I’m going to jump in the shower first,” she says, disappearing into the bathroom.

While she showers, I pull on yesterday’s jeans and start coffee, listening to the water run and trying not to think too much about her naked in there. When she emerges, hair damp, wearing my t-shirt and her underwear from last night, I hand her a cup and take my turn in the shower.

By the time I’m out, she’s scrambling eggs and making toast. I jump in to help and we move around each other in the kitchen with surprising ease for two people who’ve never done this dance before.

“This is nice,” she says, hopping up on the counter while the eggs cook, mug cradled in her hands.

“Yeah, it is.”

“I mean it,” she continues, looking at me over her mug. “I haven’t had a morning like this in... maybe ever.”

“Me either.”

And it’s true. I’ve had plenty of mornings after with women, but they always felt awkward, like we were both trying to figure out how to politely extricate ourselves. This feels different. This feels like the beginning of something instead of an ending.

Evening settles over Dark River with that particular Northwest light that makes everything look softer than it really is.

The last few days have been a blur of tangled sheets and shared showers, of her reading my old essays out loud in ridiculous voices while I cook breakfast, of fixing the deck while she hands me tools and tells me stories about Dark River’s most notorious bar fights.

We’ve been existing in this bubble where nothing matters except the next kiss, the next laugh, the next time I can get her naked. It’s been perfect.

I walk toward the Black Lantern with my hands in my pockets, trying not to think about how I’m already heading to the bar when Maren only left for her shift six hours ago.

Six hours. That’s all it took for the cabin to feel too quiet, too empty, too much like all the other places I’ve lived without her in them.

The Black Lantern’s neon sign flickers as I approach. Through the windows, I can see the Friday night crowd is already building. Tourists mixed with locals, the energy ramping up toward that sweet spot between busy and chaos.

I push through the door, and the familiar sounds wash over me—music from the jukebox, the crack of pool balls, the layered conversations of people well into their Friday night drinks. But I only have eyes for Maren.

She’s behind the bar, pulling beers and laughing at something Lark’s saying.

Her hair is up in that messy bun she always wears when she works, and she’s wearing jeans that fit perfectly.

She hasn’t seen me yet. I could turn around, go back to the cabin, pretend I have some dignity left.

Pretend I’m not completely gone for a woman I’ve only been with for a few days.

Pretend that watching her work isn’t becoming my favorite evening activity.

But then she looks up, our eyes meet and her whole face transforms. The smile she gives me is bright and surprised and so genuinely happy that my pulse kicks up like I’m sixteen again.

Fuck it. Dignity is overrated.

I make my way through the crowd toward the bar, and she watches me approach, still smiling.

“Couldn’t stay away?” she teases as I claim an empty stool.

“Apparently not,” I admit, not bothering to pretend otherwise. She pours a bourbon for me and I pull out the weathered paperback from my back pocket. It’s an old copy of The Sun Also Rises that’s been with me since college, pages soft from years of handling.

Lark slides over, her eyes bright with amusement. “Six whole hours. Must be some kind of record.”

“I brought a book,” I say defensively, holding it up. “Totally here for the reading atmosphere.”

“Right. Nothing to do with staring at Maren every thirty seconds,” she says, grinning.

“I read between stares,” I deadpan.

“An efficient system,” Lark laughs, then grabs a bottle as a customer waves her over. “Be right back.”

From down the bar, Eddie raises his Rainier in our direction, already a few drinks in judging by his relaxed posture. “You two are ridiculous,” he announces, chuckling into his beer.

“Thanks, Eddie,” I say dryly.

“In a good way,” he clarifies, raising his shot glass. “This place needed more fools in love. Good for business when the bartenders are happy.”

Maren rolls her eyes at him fondly, then turns back to me. “Hemingway tonight?” she asks, glancing at the book with a smile.

“Always a good choice for a bar,” I say, running my thumb over the worn spine. “It’s comfort reading at this point. Like going back to visit an old friend who never changes, never surprises you, just exists exactly how you remember.”

“Like literary mac and cheese?” she suggests, her eyes crinkling with understanding.

“Exactly like that,” I agree, watching her move to help another customer.

I open the book to a random page, content just to be in her space, to look up and see her there.

The early evening crowd is steady but manageable, the bar humming with that perfect level of energy where conversations flow but don’t compete.

The jukebox plays something low and bluesy, warm string lights hanging above make everything look warmer.

I settle into the rhythm, reading a few pages, watching Maren work, chatting when she has a moment. She tells me about her day. I tell her about the progress on the sunroom, how close I am to finishing it.

Around nine, the bar hits a lull. She’s drying glasses, moving slower now that there’s time to breathe, her movements relaxed and easy.

“Read to me,” she says, leaning against the bar across from me, the glass and towel still in her hands.

“Here?” I ask, glancing around at the mostly empty bar. Just Eddie in his corner, a couple sharing nachos by the window, the soft clink of glasses being washed in the back.

“Why not? I like your reading voice,” she says softly. “And it’s finally quiet enough to actually hear you without shouting over the jukebox.”

So I do, reading quietly just for her while she works, my voice low and steady.

She continues drying glasses but slower, her attention clearly on the words.

The look on her face as she listens, focused and content, lips slightly parted, makes me forget about everyone else.

I have to force myself to keep reading instead of just staring at her.

“All that tragic masculinity,” she comments when I pause, setting down a clean glass with a gentle clink.

“It’s called depth,” I protest, but I’m fighting a smile.

“No wonder he’s one of your go-tos,” she teases. “You love all that stoic brooding.”

“Guilty,” I admit with a rueful grin.

“That’s why you have me now,” she says, eyes sparkling. “To call you out when you start getting too brooding and literary.”

“Lucky me,” I say, meaning it.

“Very lucky,” she agrees playfully, then straightens as the door opens. “Hold that thought.”