Page 47 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

CALVIN

I wake before dawn with Maren pressed against my side, her breath warm on my chest. The room smells like her vanilla shampoo and sex and the salt air that never quite leaves these cabins.

I ease out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her.

The conference is this weekend and for once, I’m actually looking forward to it.

Maren’s coming with me. She got shifts covered at the bar for the whole week so that we could head to Seattle a few days early, just the two of us.

And yesterday she went through the panel schedule on my laptop, making notes about which sessions at the conference she wanted us to attend.

My laptop is still open on the table from last night’s failed attempt at writing something new. But it doesn’t matter. With her coming to Seattle with me, the whole thing shifts. It becomes an adventure instead of an obligation. I walk quietly to the kitchen to start the pour over.

I’m measuring coffee grounds when I hear her shift in bed, rolling over with that soft sound she makes. I set down the coffee and walk back toward the bedroom, already smiling.

She’s sprawled across the bed now, sheet tangled around her legs, one arm thrown above her head.

Morning light streams across her skin, turning it golden.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous. The curve of her ass, her nipples visible through the thin sheet, everything about her perfect.

My cock responds instantly, remembering last night.

Her nails down my back, how she’d clenched around me when she came.

The satisfied smile she’d given me before pulling me down for another round.

I move closer, wanting nothing more than to slide back into bed with her. That’s when I see it clearly for the first time.

The tattoo.

Tiny, cursive script inked into the side of her ribs, just beneath her left breast, curving around her side. I’ve glimpsed it before in low light, but never really looked. Never read the words. Now, in the morning sun streaming through the curtains, they stop my breath.

Some storms are good enough to dance in. Even if they ruin everything in their path.

My whole body goes still. Those are my words. From the essay everyone quotes, the one that ended up on Pinterest boards and Instagram posts. I wrote that line drunk on vodka and regret, trying to make sense of Dad dying, of everything falling apart.

And here it is, etched into her skin. Permanent. Deliberate.

She’s had it this whole time. Through every conversation about my writing, every touch, every moment we’ve spent together. My words on her ribs, and she never mentioned it. Never said anything.

How long has she had this? Since before we met? Since before Mom got sick?

I force myself to breathe normally as she curls closer, her arm draping across my chest, fingers spreading over my heart.

I study the tattoo again, the elegant script, the way it follows the curve of her ribcage.

Try to understand what it means that she carries my words on her body.

That she chose to mark herself with something I wrote.

My chest feels tight, constricted. There’s nothing inherently wrong with it. People get tattoos of quotes all the time. She was probably young when she got it. She had told me before that my book had helped her. It’s a good line. Maybe the only good one from that whole self-indulgent collection.

But still. Why didn’t she tell me?

She stretches, then notices me.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” I manage, my voice coming out surprisingly normal. “Coffee’s almost ready.”

She sits up, the sheet pooling around her waist, then stands and pulls on my flannel shirt from last night. The fabric swallows her smaller frame. The tattoo disappears beneath it.

“What time is it?” she asks, walking toward me.

“Early. Just after seven.”

“Too early.” She wraps her arms around me, pressing a kiss to my chest. “But I’m starving. We kind of skipped dinner last night.”

“We were busy,” I remind her, trying to match her playful tone.

“Very busy,” she agrees, looking up at me with a smile. “Want to go out for breakfast? That place by the harbor has amazing eggs benedict.”

“Sounds good,” I say, even though my mind is still processing, still circling the tattoo like a problem to solve.

“I’m going to shower,” she says, kissing me once more before heading toward the bathroom.

While she showers, I stand in the small kitchen, making coffee with the pour-over and trying to settle my thoughts.

The familiar ritual helps slightly. Boil the water, pour in slow circles.

By the time she emerges, hair damp and smelling like her shampoo, I’ve managed to push the feeling mostly aside.

“Shower’s free,” she says, taking the mug I offer. “Oh! I just remembered, last night I saw there’s a panel on Sunday about contemporary women writers. The one with that author from Portland you mentioned? I definitely want to catch that one.”

“Sounds good,” I say.

She’s already scrolling through her phone, coffee mug balanced in her other hand. “I’m adding it to the list so we don’t forget.” She glances up at me and grins. “Your turn for the shower. I’m starving and if we don’t leave soon, I might start gnawing on the furniture.”

I shower quickly, the hot water helping clear my head. When I come out, towel around my waist, she’s sitting on the bed fully dressed, sipping her coffee.

“We could walk,” I suggest, pulling on jeans and a clean shirt.

“It’s too far and I’m too hungry,” she says, standing and grabbing her keys from the dresser. “My stomach is staging a revolt. Let’s drive.”

She tosses me her keys without looking, already trusting I’ll catch them. “You drive. I want to finish my coffee in peace.”

The drive to the harbor is quiet, Maren humming along to the radio while I navigate the familiar streets.

Morning fog still clings to the Sound, everything soft and indistinct.

The café sits right on the water, weathered wood and nautical charm, the kind of place that hasn’t changed in thirty years and fights off any attempts at modernization.

Inside, it smells like bacon and coffee and the sea. We slide into a booth by the window, red vinyl seats that have seen better decades, and Maren immediately starts chatting with our server, an older woman named Deb who knows everything about everyone in Dark River.

“The usual for you, hon?” Deb asks Maren.

“Yes, and he’ll have...” Maren looks at me expectantly.

“Eggs benedict,” I say, though my appetite is uncertain.

“Good choice,” Deb says, scribbling on her pad. “Be right up.”

Maren starts talking about the conference, which panels she’s most excited about, asking if I know any of the speakers.

She mentions wanting to explore my neighborhood in Seattle, maybe checking out the bookstore I mentioned.

The casual way she discusses it all, like of course we’ll be doing this together, like we’re a given, makes something twist in my chest. Because I want that.

Want her planning things with me, want the assumption that we’re an us.

But my mind keeps circling back to the tattoo.

My words inked on her ribs. Why didn’t she tell me?

“You okay?” she asks suddenly, studying my face. “You seem quiet. More broody than usual.”

I’m about to respond when I see a couple approaching our table with the determined stride of people on a mission.

The man is tall, grey-haired, and as he gets closer, I feel my stomach drop.

He’s wearing my face, twenty years older.

Same jaw, same nose, same way of carrying himself.

The woman beside him looks to be in her fifties, nervous, clutching her purse like armor.

“Calvin Midnight?” the man asks, stopping at our table.

“Yes?” I don’t stand. Don’t offer my hand. Just stare at this stranger wearing my features like a Halloween mask.

“I’m David Reeves,” he says, then gestures to the woman. “This is my wife, Jolene. We’ve been trying to get in contact for some time now. And, um... There’s no easy way to say this. But we’re your biological parents.”

The words hang there. I just stare at them, trying to process.

I’ve always known I was adopted, like all the Midnight boys.

Mom and Dad told me when I was seven, sat me down in the living room with hot chocolate and careful words.

Made it clear I was chosen, wanted, loved.

I’d never been curious about the biology of it, never felt incomplete or wondered about my birth parents for more than a passing minute.

Then my mind flashes to the paper. The contact request form I found weeks ago while sorting through Mom’s desk, shoved between old tax returns.

A formal request from someone seeking contact with the child they’d given up.

I’d stuffed it back in the drawer, pretended I’d never seen it. Refused to think about it.

She’d kept it from me. Protected me from this moment.

“Oh,” I manage. I feel Maren’s hand tighten on mine under the table. “I... wasn’t expecting this.”

“We know this is a shock,” Jolene says, her voice gentle but nervous. “We tried going through proper channels, but our requests weren’t answered.”

“My mother just died. We literally just had her memorial,” I say slowly.

“We know,” David says. “We read about it. The obituary. That’s partly why we’re here. We’ve been following your career. Your writing. The essays about grief, about family. They’re powerful. Moving.”

Something about the way he says it makes me wary. “Thank you?” I manage.

“You have my gift with words, you know. I’m a poet myself, published in several literary journals.”

“Your gift?” I say slowly.

“Well, genetics...” he starts, spreading his hands like it’s obvious. “Talent like that, it runs in families.”