The hate between us

Chapter 6: The Breaking Point

I stood at the sink, trying to keep my mind focused on the dishes and not on Caleb. Not on how close we'd been earlier, not on how he'd held me in his arms when I was shaking, lost in the maze. But the tension between us lingered in the air, thick and suffocating.

The plates clattered softly as I washed them, but I felt him behind me, moving closer. I tried to ignore it, but my skin prickled with awareness the closer he got. My breath quickened, my heartbeat erratic.

Suddenly, his arm brushed against mine as he reached for something above me, and I froze.

I turned around and was met with Caleb's chest—solid and close. Too close. His eyes locked on mine, and I felt the heat rolling off him, his body practically radiating it. He was taller than me by at least a head, towering over me, his arm still raised, his fingers brushing the glass he had been reaching for.

For a moment, I couldn't move. We were barely touching, but it was enough to make my heart pound in my chest. His scent filled the space between us, a mix of something clean and undeniably masculine, and suddenly, the tension from years of hate crashed against something else—something I didn't want to acknowledge.

And then I felt it.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my face heating up as the unmistakable pressure of his body pressed against mine. My pulse raced, my skin suddenly on fire with the realization.

"Back off," I said, my voice sharp, biting through the tension. I shoved him lightly, my hands trembling against his chest, trying to push him away. "I can feel your dick."

His eyes flashed with something dangerous, but then, instead of backing off, a slow, infuriating grin crept onto his face. I hated how cocky he looked in that moment, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on me.

"You're welcome," he said, his voice low, and so casual it made my blood boil.

I glared at him, my hands tightening into fists at my sides. "You're such an ass," I spat, the anger flaring up inside me, hotter than before.
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my body trembling with frustration. How could he stand there, so smug, after everything?

Caleb just shrugged, like he didn't care at all. That stupid smirk was still on his face, and the worst part was, I could see the glint of amusement in his eyes—like he was enjoying this, enjoying pushing me to the edge.

"Come on, Ella," he said, his voice laced with mockery. "You've always hated me, why stop now?" His lips curled into a grin that made me want to slap him, but instead, I just stood there, fists clenched, trying to swallow the rage bubbling up inside me. "Besides," he added, leaning closer so his breath brushed against my ear, "you were the one who turned around and didn't back off."

That was it.

I shoved him again, harder this time, forcing him to take a step back, away from me. "Back. Off," I snapped, my heart pounding against my ribcage. "You're disgusting."

He raised his hands in surrender, laughing softly under his breath as he backed off, but the damage was done. I hated him more in that moment than I had in years, but there was something underneath that hate—something I didn't want to admit was there.

"I'm out," Caleb said, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen without another word. I watched his broad back retreat, feeling a mix of fury and... something else, something that unsettled me. He disappeared into the salon, and I heard the familiar clink of glass. Bourbon. Of course.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where he had been, my hands still shaking. I didn't want to follow him. I didn't want to be near him.

But my body moved before my mind could catch up.

---

The salon was dimly lit, the heavy smell of bourbon filling the air. Caleb sat in one of the large leather chairs, already pouring himself a glass, his expression calm and unreadable. The sight of him sitting there, like nothing had happened, only fueled the fire in my chest.

I walked in, trying to appear calm, but the tension between us hadn't faded. It had only shifted, from anger to something raw, unspoken. Without a word, I crossed the room, my eyes fixed on the bottle of bourbon on the table beside him.

"I'll take one too," I said, my voice clipped, trying to push past the tightness in my throat.

Caleb looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn't move to pour me a glass. Instead, he took a slow sip from his own, his gaze never leaving mine. "I don't think so," he said, setting his glass down with a deliberate clink.

I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. "What's your problem now?"

He leaned back in his chair, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I don't think you need one, Ella," he said, his tone casual, but there was a challenge in his eyes. "Not with how worked up you already are."

My jaw clenched. "I'm not worked up," I shot back, hating how defensive I sounded.

"Oh?" Caleb's voice was low, almost teasing. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked up at me. "So, you're perfectly fine? Just came here for a quiet drink?"

I could feel my hands tightening into fists again, my nails digging into my palms. "Stop acting like you know me," I said, my voice shaking with frustration. "You don't."

Caleb chuckled softly, the sound infuriatingly casual. "Trust me, I know you better than you think." He reached for the bottle again, and this time, I lunged forward to grab it before he could. But he was faster, his hand wrapping around my wrist just as I reached for the glass.

We were close again, too close. His grip was firm but not painful, his fingers warm against my skin. I tried to pull away, but the tension between us snapped tighter, pulling me in even as I fought against it.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The room felt small, like the walls were closing in, the weight of all the years we'd spent hating each other pressing down on us. But this wasn't just hate anymore. It was something darker, something hotter, and I couldn't breathe under the intensity of it.

Caleb's gaze dropped to my wrist where he held me, his expression shifting slightly, his smirk fading. He looked up again, his eyes locking with mine, and for the first time, I saw something flicker there—something vulnerable, something real.

"You still want that drink?" he asked, his voice quieter now, the teasing edge gone.

I swallowed, my throat dry. The heat between us was unbearable, and I didn't know how to answer. So I didn't.

Instead, I pulled my hand free, stepping back, trying to put some distance between us. But the space didn't make it any easier to breathe. I could still feel him, could still feel the pull between us, and it scared me more than anything else.

"I don't need anything from you," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

Caleb didn't respond. He just watched me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he stood up, reaching for his glass again. He downed the rest of the bourbon in one swift motion, then walked past me without another word, leaving the room as quietly as he had entered.

---

I stood there alone, the silence pressing in on me, my heart racing in my chest. I should've felt relieved that he was gone, but all I felt was the lingering heat of his presence, the unanswered questions hanging between us.

And the unsettling realization that, after all these years, the hate between us wasn't as simple as I'd thought.

It never had been.