Page 55 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

CALVIN

Morning light fills my apartment, that particular Seattle gray that makes ten AM look like dawn.

I’ve been sitting at my kitchen island for an hour, drinking coffee and replaying yesterday’s reading in my head.

Day three of the Found Words Festival is starting without me, not that I’m expected after yesterday.

The festival organizers had called last night, diplomatically suggesting I skip my final panel.

“Given the social media situation,” they’d said carefully, meaning the videos of me punching Adrian that were everywhere by now, plus my impromptu poem that had somehow gone viral.

“We think it might be best not to add fuel to the fire.” Elena had followed up with her own call, thanking me for dealing with Adrian and apologizing for the situation, but the truth was I felt nothing but relief.

No more panels. No more performing wisdom I don’t possess.

So here I sit, thinking about standing on that stage yesterday.

For the first time in years, I said something real instead of crafted.

Told a room full of strangers that I love her, that I believe her, that I want to build something real.

It was terrifying and necessary and the most honest I’ve been in public in years.

But I should call her. I know I should. Pick up the phone and tell her directly instead of hoping she saw the livestream.

My phone sits right there on the counter, and I keep reaching for it, then pulling back.

Some part of me is still frozen, still unable to bridge that gap between public declaration and private conversation.

I’d managed to text everyone else. Alex, checking in after seeing the video. Theo, thanking him for being there for me. Even pulled out that business card from my pocket where I’d shoved it weeks ago, still creased from my angry grip. I’d sent David and Jolene a message at 2 AM:

Calvin: I’m not ready for what you want from me.

The money, the career help, that’s not happening.

But maybe we could start with something smaller.

A phone call sometime. No expectations. I need to understand some things about where I come from, but on my terms. This isn’t forgiveness. It’s just a possibility.

Jolene: Calvin, thank you for reaching out. We’ll take whatever you’re willing to give. A phone call sounds perfect. We’re here whenever you’re ready. No pressure.

David: We know we handled everything wrong. Both then and at the café. Just grateful you’re open to any contact at all.

I’d stared at their responses for a while. They seemed to understand what I was offering. Not absolution, not a relationship, just a door cracked open slightly.

I could text strangers who abandoned me as a baby, but not the woman I love. What does that say about me?

Did she even see the poem? Probably not. If she did see it, did she understand what I was trying to say? That the tattoo doesn’t matter, that I know she’s not like those people I accused her of being, that I want her for exactly who she is?

My phone sits on the counter next to my coffee mug, silent.

When it finally buzzes, I nearly knock over my mug lunging for it.

Maren: I’m in Seattle. Can we talk?

I stare at the message for thirty seconds, my heart hammering. She’s here. She saw the poem. She came.

Calvin: Yes. Where?

Maren: Your apartment. I know where it is. Theo gave me the address.

Of course Theo did. My brother, still trying to fix things even when I don’t deserve it.

Calvin: I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.

Maren: Already had three cups. Just buzz me up.

Twenty minutes. I spend them pacing, straightening things that are already straight, making that fresh pot of coffee anyway. Something to do with my hands.

The buzzer sounds at exactly twenty minutes. I buzz her in without speaking, then wait by my door listening to the elevator climb.

She walks into my apartment and I catch vanilla shampoo as she passes. The scent hits me with a wave of missing her so intense I have to focus on breathing normally. I watch her take in the sterile perfection of this place, wondering what she sees.

“I saw the livestream,” she says, turning to face me. “I heard the poem.”

I hold my breath, waiting.

She seems to search for the right words.

“It was... God, Calvin, standing up there and saying all that in front of everyone. It meant everything to hear you say those things.” Her voice wavers slightly.

“But then you didn’t call. You didn’t text.

You read this incredible poem about loving me and then just..

. nothing. And I didn’t know if you meant it or if it was just another performance. ”

My chest cracks open hearing the hurt in her voice. I open my mouth to tell her it was real, all of it was real, but she holds up her hand.

“No, wait. Let me get this all out. I’ve been practicing what I wanted to say the whole drive here.” She takes a breath. “First, the tattoo. It was horrible of me to hide it. I was so embarrassed and scared you’d think it was something it wasn’t. I was wrong not to tell you. Completely wrong.”

“I believe you. And I get it. You were scared of my reaction,” I say quietly. “And I reacted exactly how you feared.”

“Still doesn’t make it right. You had every reason to be upset about it.”

We look at each other for a moment, both of us trying to navigate this differently than before.

“And you should know,” she continues, “I moved out of the cabins.”

I feel my stomach drop. Her life has been continuing without me. Of course it has. “When?”

“Day after you left. Theo and Alex ended up helping me move.” She wraps her arms around herself.

“It was time. I didn’t want to live next to your ghost. And honestly, it was time anyway, even without everything with us.

I’ve spent ten years in the same tiny space because it was safe and comfortable.

Your leaving just made me realize I’d been hiding there. ”

I nod, a mix of sadness and pride washing over me. She’s moving forward. Growing. Without me, but still.

“I filed for sabbatical,” I tell her, needing her to know. “The day I wrote that poem. I’m done with the university, all of it. I don’t want that life anymore.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

“Really. I can’t keep teaching from behind a mask, pretending I understand craft when I haven’t written anything real in years. Can’t keep lecturing about authentic voice when I’ve been performing myself into corners.”

She nods slowly, chewing her lip the way she does when she’s thinking. “That’s good, Calvin. That’s really good. You’ve been miserable there for years.”

There’s a pause where we just look at each other, both acknowledging this truth I’ve been avoiding.

“Why didn’t you call?” she asks then. “After the poem? You do this big, romantic, public declaration and then... nothing?”

The question I’ve been dreading. I run my hand through my hair, trying to find words that aren’t excuses.

“Because I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound like bullshit.

The poem was... I could control that. I could craft it, make it perfect.

But calling you meant having an actual conversation where I couldn’t edit my words.

Where I’d have to figure out in real time how to fix what I broke. ”

“So you just didn’t?”

“I kept picking up my phone. Started probably twenty texts. But everything sounded wrong. Too much or not enough. The poem was my way of reaching out but then I froze on the follow-through.”

She takes this in, something shifting in her expression.

“The poem was beautiful,” she says quietly.

“It really was. I watched it three times. Maybe ten times, actually. Lark and I sat there replaying it.” A pause.

“I just got scared when I didn’t hear from you afterwards.

Like maybe it was just another piece of writing, not a real promise. ”

“I should have called,” I say, meaning it. “The poem was real but you’re right, I should have called you.”

She pulls a folded paper from her pocket then, smoothing it on the counter.

She smiles softly. “I wrote something. After seeing your poem.”

“You’re writing again?” The thought fills me with genuine happiness for her.

A small smile touches her lips. “I guess we both are.”

She slides the paper across the counter. “Don’t read it while I’m here.”

My heart sinks. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m going to the festival. I’ve always wanted to attend, and there are panels today I don’t want to miss.

” She moves toward the door, then turns back.

“Listen, I’ve thought about this a lot. Read my poem.

Think about what you really want. Because I love you, Calvin.

And I want this to work. But no more secrets, no more hiding things.

No more running when things get hard. I need you to be all in. ”

She pauses at the door. “I’ll be at the festival until five. Call me after you read it.”

“Thank you,” I say. “For coming here. For the poem. For not just writing me off.”

“I needed to come,” she says softly, still looking at me. “I needed to know if what we have is real or if I’ve been fooling myself.”

“What do you think?”

She considers this for a moment. “I think you meant every word of that poem. But I don’t know yet if you can live them instead of just writing them. Just think about it. That’s why I’m giving you until five.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me with her poem and the echo of her words. I love you. I want this to work. The ball is completely in my court now.

I unfold her poem.

When the Rain Let Up

by Maren Strand

You said the storm started the night I said I could love you. But that’s not true. The rain was already falling—I just chose not to run from it.

You waited for the sky to clear. I learned to live in the weather. It wasn’t lightning, just a slow, relentless grace. Not soft. Not easy. But alive.

Now I carry hope like a candle cupped in wind, flickering, stubborn, never quite out.

So I’ll sit here, in the tender ache of what still could be, and write. Not to fix us. Not to beg. But because I still believe in storms that pass, and people who stay.

Let’s not wait for the silence to end. Let’s speak while the rain is falling.

I read it three times, then once more. She’s not offering forgiveness. She’s offering possibility.

I sit back down at my kitchen island, holding her poem. For maybe an hour, maybe more, I sit there thinking about what she said. Stop performing and start living.

The problem is, I’ve been performing for so long I’m not sure where Calvin Midnight the author ends and Calvin the person begins. But Maren knows. She’s always known. She saw the broken man behind the beautiful sentences and loved me anyway.

And suddenly it’s so clear it takes my breath away. I want her. Not as my muse, not as inspiration, not as material for essays. I want Maren who makes great coffee and reads romance novels. Who tends bar and takes care of everyone. Who saw through my bullshit from day one and called me on it.

I want the life we were building.

I fold her poem carefully, put it in my pocket next to my heart.

I know exactly what I have to do.