Three days. That's how long the silence lasted. Three days of unanswered texts, calls that went straight to voicemail, and a growing knot of anxiety in my stomach.

The first day, I told myself she needed space. Time to cool off, to process whatever had upset her so much at the bookstore. By the second day, worry had started to outweigh patience. I'd driven by Horizon Books during what should have been her shift, only to find Daniel working the register instead. When I'd asked about her, he'd been vague.

"She called in. Personal day."

"Is she okay?"

He'd given me a look I couldn't quite decipher. "You'd have to ask her that."

"I'm trying," I'd muttered. "She's not answering my calls."

Something like understanding had flashed across his face then. "Ah. One of those weeks."

One of those weeks. Like this was a pattern. Like Isla regularly disappeared, shut people out, went dark. I'd driven home with that thought circling in my mind, a new worry taking root.

By the third day, I was done with giving space. Done with respecting boundaries that felt more like walls being built between us. I needed to see her, to make sure she was okay, to understand what the hell was happening.

I couldn't even try her apartment since there was no elevator, just a steep set of stairs. I stayed on the sidewalk instead, staring up at her window. Third one from the left. Too high to call up to, too far to reach. The light was off. No movement. 

Then I went to the bookstore again, where Daniel informed me that she'd taken the week off. Finally, on a hunch, I checked the diner where we'd gone after her shift that time, the one open all night with decent coffee and better pie.

And there she was, tucked into a back booth, a mug of something steaming between her hands, staring out the window at the darkening street. She looked wrecked. Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, circles under her eyes so dark they looked like bruises, body hunched in on itself as if trying to take up as little space as possible.

I hesitated in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. Maybe she didn't want to be found. Maybe this pulling away wasn't a cry for help but a deliberate choice. Maybe pushing my way back into her life was exactly the wrong thing to do.

But I couldn't leave. Not when she looked like that. Not when I'd spent three days imagining all the worst possibilities.

So I wheeled over to her booth and positioned myself across from her, saying nothing. Waiting.

She didn't look surprised to see me. Didn't look anything, really, beyond an exhaustion that seemed bone-deep. We sat in silence for a long minute, the diner's ambient noise filling the space between us. The clink of silverware on plates. The hiss of the grill. The murmur of conversations at other tables.

Eventually, a waitress came over. "Can I get you anything, hon?"

"Just coffee," I said, not taking my eyes off Isla.

The waitress nodded and left, returning moments later with a mug that she filled with coffee dark enough to strip paint. Then we were alone again.

"How did you find me?" Isla finally asked, her voice raspy, as if she hadn't used it in days. Or had used it too much, screaming or crying.

"Luck. Intuition. Desperation. Take your pick."

She nodded, returning her gaze to the window.

"Are you okay?" I asked when it became clear she wasn't going to volunteer any information.

A hollow laugh escaped her. "No. Not really."

"What happened, Isla? What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything." She took a sip of her tea, both hands wrapped around the mug for warmth or stability or both. "It's not about you."

"Then what is it about? Because one minute we were fine, and the next you're shutting me out completely. No explanation, no warning. Just gone."

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Let someone stay." She finally met my eyes, her own dull with exhaustion. "Be a girlfriend. Be in a relationship. Any of it."

Something in my chest cracked open, a pain so sharp it took my breath away. "Then don't push me away."

She looked down at her mug, fingers tracing the rim. "It's not that simple."

"It can be."

"No, it can't." She pushed her hair back from her face, a gesture of frustration. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand."

She was quiet for so long I thought she wasn't going to answer. Then, so softly I had to lean forward to hear her, "When you stepped in at the bookstore, something inside me snapped. It wasn't about you helping. It was about what it reminded me of."

"Your ex."

"Yes. No. I don't know." She made a sound of frustration. "It was like this alarm went off in my head. Danger, danger, danger. And I couldn't turn it off."

"So you ran."

"So I ran," she agreed. "It's what I do, Callum. When things get too intense, too real, too anything. I run. I hide. I shut down."

"You don't have to this time."

"I don't know how not to." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she cleared her throat, blinking rapidly. "I've spent years building these walls, these defenses. They're not something I can just switch off because I want to be with you."

"I'm not asking you to switch them off. I'm asking you to let me in, even with the walls up."

She looked at me then, really looked at me, her eyes searching mine for something I couldn't name. "Why? Why would you want that? It's exhausting. I'm exhausting."

"Because I care about you. All of you. I meant what I said when I told you I care about the sunshine and the storm."

"The storm is ugly, Callum. Violent. Unpredictable. You've only seen glimpses of it so far."

"I'm not afraid of storms."

She shook her head, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "You should be. They destroy everything in their path."

"Not everything."

"Just the things that matter."

We fell silent again, the weight of her words settling between us. She believed it, I realized. Believed she was destined to destroy anything good in her life. Believed she wasn't capable of a healthy relationship. Believed the walls that protected her were also the ones that guaranteed her isolation.

"Tell me what happened after you left the bookstore," I said quietly. "The last three days. Where were you? What were you doing?"

She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Had a bit of a breakdown. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Just kept hearing his voice in my head. Eric's. Telling me I was weak. Helpless. Worthless without him."

My hands clenched involuntarily at the mention of her ex. "And you believed him."

"I don't know." She exhaled shakily. "It's not logical, what happens in my head. It's like a record that skips. No matter how many times I try to move past it, I end up right back in that place. That headspace."

"And you couldn't call me? Tell me what was happening?"

"I couldn't call anyone. I could barely function." She looked down at her hands, and I noticed for the first time the raw skin around her nails where she'd bitten them. "I just shut down. Went to my emergency appointment with my therapist. Took the medication I hate taking because it makes everything foggy. Slept for about twelve hours straight. Then came here when I couldn't stand the silence of my apartment anymore."

My heart ached for her. For the pain she'd been through. For the battles she still fought, alone in her head.

"Next time," I said softly, "call me before you shut down completely. Let me help, even if that just means sitting with you in silence."

"There might not be a next time, Callum." The words were barely a whisper.

"What does that mean?"

"It means maybe this is a sign. That I'm not ready for this. For us." She rubbed her eyes, looking impossibly tired. "Maybe I need to figure my shit out before I drag someone else into it."

"You're not dragging me anywhere I don't want to go."

"But you don't know the destination. Hell, neither do I." She gestured vaguely. "It could be like this all the time. Me falling apart over nothing. Disappearing when things get hard. Never being the kind of partner you deserve."

"Let me decide what I deserve."

"It's not just about you."

"No, it's about us. Both of us." I reached across the table, not quite touching her but offering my hand, palm up. "And I'm choosing this. Choosing you. Even with the walls and the storms and the running."

She stared at my outstretched hand, conflict clear on her face. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you choose this mess? Choose me? You could have anyone, Callum."

I couldn't help but laugh at that. "Have you met me? The angry guy in the wheelchair with his own mountain of issues?"

"That's not how I see you."

"And the mess isn't how I see you."

She hesitated, then slowly placed her hand in mine. Her skin was cold, trembling slightly against my palm. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Then don't push me away."

"I don't know if I can promise that."

"Then promise to try. To talk to me when the alarms start going off in your head. To let me in, even a little bit, before you run."

She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers curled loosely in mine. "I can try," she said finally. "That's all I can promise."

"That's enough for now."

She nodded, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. She didn't say anything else, but she didn't pull her hand away either. We sat like that for a while, connected by that small point of contact, the silence between us more comfortable than it had been.

The waitress returned, refilling my coffee and offering Isla a fresh mug of tea, which she accepted with a small smile of thanks. Outside, the night had deepened, the streetlights casting pools of yellow on the wet pavement. It had been raining, I realized. I hadn't even noticed.

"I'm sorry," Isla said after a while. "For disappearing. For not answering your texts or calls. For making you worry."

"Thank you for the apology. But I'm more concerned about you than about me being worried."

"I'm okay. Or I will be." She took a sip of her tea. "The fog is lifting. The voices are quieter."

"Voices?"

"Not actual voices. Just the things my brain tells me when I'm in that place. That I'm weak. Broken. Unlovable." She shrugged, trying to make it sound casual and failing. "You know. The usual greatest hits of trauma."

"For the record, none of those things are true."

"My rational brain knows that. The rest of me is still working on believing it."

I squeezed her hand gently. "Well, I believe it enough for both of us."

Something softened in her expression, a warmth returning to her eyes that had been absent since I'd found her. "You really are something else, Callum Rhodes."

"So I've been told."

"Thank you. For finding me. For not giving up."

"I'm not going to give up, Isla. Not on you. Not on us."

She looked down at our joined hands. "Even when I make it hard?"

"Especially then."

She nodded, accepting this, though I could see the doubt still lingering in her eyes. "I should probably go home. Try to get some actual sleep in a bed instead of the twenty-minute naps I've been surviving on."

"Want a ride?"

"That would be nice." She hesitated. "But I think I need to be alone tonight. To process. To think."

"Okay."

"It's not pushing you away," she added quickly. "It's just I need a little space to get my head straight. To make sure I'm choosing this, choosing us, from a clear place. Not just because you're here and you're kind and you make everything seem possible when you look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm whole. Like I'm enough. Like you see all of me and you're still not running for the hills."

"I'm not."

"I know. And that terrifies me as much as it gives me hope."

I could understand that. The fear that came with letting someone in, with being vulnerable. The risk of believing that this time might be different, that this person might stay.

"Take the time you need," I said. "I'll be here when you're ready."

She nodded, a tentative smile touching her lips. "Thank you for understanding."

"That's my job."

"Job, huh? What's the pay like?"

The joke caught me off guard, a glimpse of her usual self breaking through the exhaustion. "Terrible. The benefits are pretty good though."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Get to hang out with a beautiful, brilliant woman who keeps me on my toes. Can't complain about that."

She blushed, ducking her head. "Smooth talker."

"Just honest."

We split the bill, despite her protests that I should let her pay since she'd been the one to disappear. Then I drove her home, the silence in the car comfortable rather than strained. When I pulled up in front of her building, she turned to me with a serious expression.

"I'm going to try, Callum. To be better at this. To not run when things get hard. I can't promise I won't still have bad days, bad weeks even. But I'm going to try to let you in before I completely shut down."

"That's all I'm asking."

She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. "Goodnight, Callum. I'll call you tomorrow. Promise."

"Goodnight, Sunshine."

She smiled at the nickname, a real smile that reached her eyes for the first time that night. "Sweet dreams, Hot Wheels."

I watched her until she was safely inside the building, then sat there for a long moment, processing the evening. It wasn't a solution. Wasn't even really a resolution. Just a step forward on a path that was bound to have more obstacles ahead.

But she hadn't pushed me away completely. Hadn't ended things. Had even promised to try, which I was beginning to understand was a big deal for her.

It was enough for now. Had to be.

As I drove home, I thought about what she'd said about storms destroying everything in their path. She wasn't wrong, exactly. Storms were powerful, dangerous things. But they were also necessary. They cleared away dead branches, watered parched earth, made room for new growth.

Maybe what Isla needed wasn't someone who would try to calm her storms, but someone who would weather them alongside her. Who would stand firm when the winds blew, who wouldn't be washed away by the rain.

I wanted to be that someone. More than I'd wanted anything in a long time.

The question was, would she let me?