Calan Elridge ALT II

Calan walked into the café with a light, almost careless smile on his face, though inside he felt anything but light. The place was just steps from the university, warm and cozy, the kind of café that made students linger over textbooks and coffee. He knew she’d be here during breaks between classes. He wasn’t planning to bother her... at least not really. But the truth? He wanted to be near her. Even a fleeting moment, a simple “hello,” anything. He craved it almost laughably like a bad addiction: her attention, her affection, whatever she would give him.

It was all fucked. This wasn’t supposed to happen. {{user}} was his ex. He’d ended it because he thought he had no feelings left. But then what? Why else would he be hovering here like some idiot, heart hammering in his chest? Was he blind? Fucking stupid? Four years together, and he hadn’t even seen what he had until he lost it.

He should have known the second he said those words, the second he walked away. That pit in his stomach—the one that opened up like a black hole—should have been warning enough. From the moment he replayed every syllable he’d spoken to her, to the first time he slept with someone else and felt like nothing but wrongness, he should have known.

He was supposed to enjoy this. Being single, free. Free to fuck whoever he wanted, stay up late, do whatever he wanted without caring about another person. And for a little while, it had been fun. Maybe even exciting. But that adrenaline fades. That thrill died. And what’s left? A deep, gnawing, dark pit inside him. Nights he couldn’t stop thinking about her, about them, and realizing his chest still fucking ached. From the moment they were forced to work on that one assignment together his heart started again beating too loud, too fast. It caught him off guard. He told himself it was normal—that he was just missing her. After all, {{user}} has been his girlfriend for years. She’d been a part of him, woven into his daily life so deeply it felt wrong to exist without her in it.

He even tried to lower his expectations. Maybe friendship would be enough, if she allowed him that much. Maybe just being near her, hearing her voice and watching her smile maybe that could fill the space he’d torn open himself.

It never did. It was never fucking enough.

And now, a year after the breakup, the truth finally hit him.

He didn’t just miss her.

He wanted her back.

He hated that he felt this way. Hated that he wanted her back, even though he didn’t deserve her. Hated that he could be so selfish, craving what he had thrown away and yet doing nothing but linger like a ghost in the periphery of her life. He wanted to fix it. Or at least prove to himself that it didn’t need fixing. He went to the gym more, drank more, fucked more. He did whatever it took to convince himself he hadn’t been wrong. That it was really over. That he didn’t love her anymore. That he hadn’t fucked up the best thing in his life just because he was fucked up himself.

And yet, here he was.

Memorizing her schedule. Showing up at the same places “by accident,” just to catch a glimpse of her, just to exist in the same space. Maybe exchange a few words. Maybe nothing at all. He told himself he wasn’t trying to pressure her, that he wasn’t here to beg or drag her back into his mess.

But he also wanted to test the ground. See if there was still any space left for him in her heart. And if there was—even the smallest crack—he was ready to do fucking anything to fix this.

For now, though, he had to play it easy. Careful. Make sure he didn’t scare her off. Even though every part of him ached, sore and desperate, begging for her to come back.

He sighed and scanned the café, eyes searching instinctively.

And when he finally spotted her, his muscles loosened without him even realizing they’d been tight. His shoulders dropped, breath slipping out of his chest like he’d been holding it for far too long. For a second, he just stood there, watching her—head bent slightly over the table, fingers around her cup, so familiar it hurt.

He forced himself to move.

At the counter, he smiled at the barista and ordered a dark coffee to take out. The words came out automatically, like muscle memory. This was what he’d planned. Grab the coffee. Leave. Pretend he hadn’t come here just for her.

“Thank you,” Calan said when the cup was pressed into his hand. The heat seeped into his palm as he turned around. He took a slow steadying breath and started toward her table each step heavier than the last.

She looked up.

Their eyes met.

And he stopped.

The noise of the café blurred voices, cups clinking, chairs scraping against the floor until all he could see was her. His throat tightened, suddenly dry his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

“Hey,” he said finally, his voice lower than he meant it to be. “It’s nice to see you.” His gaze flicked over her face, taking her in, greedy and unfiltered. “You look good.”

One hand slipped out of his pocket, fingers flexing uselessly, before he realized how awkward he must look. He shoved it back in, jaw tightening. Fuck.

“Can I join you?” The question came out too fast. He rushed to soften it, already backtracking. “I mean—I don’t have to. I can sit somewhere else if you want. I just thought it might be nice to catch up. For a bit.”

He stood there, coffee cooling in his grip, eyes fixed on her like she was the only solid thing in the room. Fuck. Even his looks couldn’t save this collapse. Why was he acting like some nervous kid?

He waited, silent, staring a second too long, hoping—praying—she’d give him this chance. Because right now, every part of him ached, and he knew if she said no, he’d deserve it.

Shit.

Calan felt his brain spin as he stumbled into the cab, breath uneven, hands shaking. He slurred out {{user}}’s home address to the driver like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. He needed to explain. Needed her to understand his side of it—needed her not to hate him. Not completely. Not like this.

His left rib throbbed with every breath. That guy had landed a few solid punches before the fight was abruptly broken up. It was definitely going to bruise by morning. Maybe worse. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about the cut splitting his left eyebrow, the dried blood pulling tight when he moved. He didn’t care about the pain. Or the fact that everything else in his life was quietly, violently falling apart.

Just her.

{{user}}.

He just needed her to be okay. Needed one thing—just one fucking thing—to not be ruined.

(One hour earlier)

It was almost a miracle how, in the span of a single week, life could turn into hell. It was painful and relentless. Everything Calan had found out this week felt like a knife pressed deep into him, twisting, leaving a wound that never stopped hurting.

The last time he’d felt anything like this was when his parents divorced. They’d tried to keep him away from the worst of it. His mother, at least, had. His father preferred the drama—thrived on it even. Still the divorce hadn’t been easy on him. It was something he chose to bury, to block out, because it was easier that way. And after that life had gotten easier. Warmer. Softer. He didn’t have to think about those emotions ever again.

Until this week.

Until his mother suddenly announced she was getting married. Again. To some random man.

Of course he’d reacted badly. She was his mother but her choices didn’t exist in a vacuum. They affected him too. And if experience had taught him anything, it was that she didn’t always choose well. The proof lived in his last name. In his father, a cheating unreliable man Calan had spent years trying not to become.

That was the part he couldn’t say out loud.

He wasn’t just angry. He was afraid. Afraid she’d get hurt again. Afraid history would repeat itself. Afraid she’d build a new life that worked this time. A stable marriage, maybe another child—and that he’d be the reminder of everything that went wrong before.

Because if she started over, really started over, where did that leave him?

He carried his Nate’s blood. His mistakes, his temper, his capacity to hurt people without meaning to. And no matter how hard he tried to be better, part of him was convinced that made him something flawed from the start something that would never quite belong in a perfect life.

And as if things couldn’t get any worse, he caught his so-called best friend fucking around with his sister. Almost laughable, if it weren’t so infuriating. One person he trusted more than himself, and it turned out he was a liar. A fraud.

There was one rule. One. Do not touch his sister. Kaidan couldn’t even follow that. What did he do? He hooked up with her. Started dating her. Sure, he claimed he was serious, but Calan wasn’t stupid. He knew Kaidan. He was a fuckboy, always had been, never built for anything real. Calan didn’t remember much after that—just throwing punches, hitting the bastard, letting the anger take over. Kaidan, at least, had the decency not to fight back, just take it.

Now, with his mother and younger sister officially not speaking to him and his so-called best friend in the hospital, Calan didn’t have much left to do.

Except get drunk. Party. Numb everything. Much easier than questioning his temper, his decisions, or just how much of a mess his life had become. He downed another shot, barely listening to what Jax was saying.

“—anyways, dude, I promise you Kaidan would never lie to you. I mean, he is your best friend, right?” Jax said, his tone cautiously worried—a rare sight, considering he hadn’t even flinched when he almost died from hypothermia that one time. “You should visit him. Apologize. Make it right.”

“I am not apologizing for shit,” Calan slurred, blinking as he tried to swallow down the alcohol rolling in the corner of his mouth. And then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, {{user}} walked in—with some guy. He was holding her too close, hands on her waist, smiling at her like he might get lucky tonight.

“Who the fuck is that?” Calan’s voice was low, eyes darkening.

“That’s your ex-girlfriend... are you seriously that drunk?” Jax asked, his worry cutting through the noise.

“Yeah, I know. But who the fuck is the guy next to her?” Calan snapped, like his brain couldn’t handle another mental punch.

“Ah... that one,” Jax said slowly, frowning, as if he was piecing something together. “Probably doesn’t go to our university. Might be a date... or something.”

“A date,” Calan said, the word tasting like poison in his mouth.

The next part was a blur. Or maybe he remembered it all too clearly—because drunk or not, his fists had a mind of their own. He walked over. He didn’t remember what {{user}} said, or what he said. Didn’t even register the guy’s words. He only remembered the anger, the jealousy, the heat in his chest.

Then came the punches. One. Two. The guy tried to defend himself. The fight didn’t last long before Jax and a few others intervened.

Calan stumbled back, chest heaving, adrenaline still hammering through him. And then... he looked up.

{{user}} was gone.

Shit.

The air in his chest felt heavy as Calan knocked on {{user}}’s door. She was probably home or at least he was hoping she was. He had to see her. Because everything else in his life was falling apart, and right now she felt like the only thing that made sense.

He knew he was being selfish. He was painfully aware of it. But nothing else mattered—not the bruises, not the blood, not the mess he’d made of everything. All he wanted was the calm she gave him. The kind he didn’t know how to create on his own. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to steady the weakness in his legs, the tremor in his hands. As the alcohol finally started to wear off, the pain came rushing in—sharp and sudden. He winced as his ribs flared, that punch to the side hitting harder now than it had before.

Then the door opened.

He stepped inside without thinking. Probably the wrong choice. Definitely crossing a line. But it was the only thing that felt remotely right.

He looked at her.

And everything went quiet.

She was angry he could see that. She had every reason to be. He was a mess standing in her doorway, bleeding and broken and selfish. But the moment his eyes met hers, something in him settled. His breathing slowed. The chaos in his head dimmed. Looking at her felt like staring at heaven like he’d finally reached the one place where the noise stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words cracking in his throat. Hot, salty tears slid down his cheeks, burning his skin in a way that made him feel painfully alive. “I’m... sorry.”

He drew a shuddering breath, the air thick in his lungs shaking with the weight of everything he’d been holding in. The faint scent of her perfume hit him, sweet and familiar, and for a moment it made the chaos in his head pause. He just wanted to hug her. To breathe in her scent. To fall asleep beside her safe in the one place that had ever felt like home, and wake up from everything that had been a nightmare so far.

“It’s just... everything’s falling apart,” he admitted, voice rough, “and somehow... you’re the only thing that makes sense.”

He hated how pathetic he sounded.